


Our Own Kind of Family

by skylarkblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Anxiety, Badass SHIELD Agents, Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Bonding, Fluff, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, I do promise that it improves with time, I started writing this over a year ago so I apologise if the beginning sucks, Mild Language, Multi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Thanksgiving, implied depression, references to past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 09:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylarkblue/pseuds/skylarkblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The six of them never thought they'd find family again, until they came together and formed one of their own. Set several months after the battle in New York, the Avengers have moved into Stark Tower and are trying to live their lives quietly - but when you're as broken as this lot, living quietly is something that almost never happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Date Night

When Clint first asked Natasha on a date, she wasn't quite sure how to react. To begin with, she didn't really understand what he meant, and ended up staring at him in a very confused way for at least thirty seconds. "Is there a mission I don't know about?"

"No, Tasha, I mean - do you want to go out tomorrow night? For dinner, and...to the theatre?" He tried not to laugh when he saw she didn't get it yet. "Don't you want to go out without having to take out an Armenian child trafficking ring?"

"Oh." She seemed taken aback for a few moments before a rare smile spread across her face. "Yes, that sounds good."

"It's a date then." He gave her a smile of her own, something she wasn't used to see these days. Ever since Loki's attack, he'd become more reserved, as if he thought letting his guard down for a single second would invite another invasion of his mind. Seeing him relax, even for a second, made her happier than she'd care to admit. She was also more excited about their date than she'd care to admit either.

Then Fury had to go and ruin it with one of his stupid video conferences.

"All Avengers are to remain at Stark Tower for the next five days. Nobody is permitted to leave without my express permission. You cannot leave for any reason at all. No, Stark," He caught the look on Tony's face, "No excuses. There's a situation down in Baltimore and we may require you at any given moment. So, stay put."

"I have a meeting with the head of-"

"Director Fury, Agent Romanoff and I have plans for tonight, and-"

"Cancel. Them." The look Fury was giving them all was positively brutal, even through the screen. "None of you may leave the tower, do you understand?"

Clint and Natasha shared a look. Steve nodded with a quiet, "Yes, Sir." Bruce was silent, probably not paying attention - he rarely left the tower anyway. As Fury disconnected the call, Tony just grinned, turned to the others and said "Well, this is going to be fun."

* * *

Within a day Tony was going mad. He'd finished half the games on his laptop (twice) and wasn't bothered with the other half. Bruce had kicked him out of the labs when he decided to find out what would happen if he put three eggs into a centrifuge (exactly what could be expected to happen) and he was in no mood to work on the Iron Man armour. There was only so much entertainment that could be gained from a bottle of scotch, and Pepper had gone out hours earlier. Finally, at the persuasion of Banner, he went downstairs to put on a movie. Popcorn in hand he grabbed a random DVD from the extensive collection and threw himself down on the couch.

Barton was sitting in the corner of the room, apparently doing a crossword with a black pen and paying no attention to Tony as a disc was slipped into the player and the television buzzed to life. Clint barely even looked up as  _From Russia with Love_  started to play on the screen, but he chuckled quietly at the familiar theme tune.

Natasha strolled into the room looking serene and oddly happy. A light sheen of sweat covered her arms and back, visible as she wore nothing more than a black sports bra and leggings. Tony guessed she'd just returned from sparring with Steve, if the way she was stretching her arms was anything to go by. However none of this really mattered to him; no, what mattered was she was standing in the goddamn way of the television screen.

"D'you mind moving, Romanoff? I'm trying to watch something."

"What are we watching?" She flumped her body down beside his, taking a handful of popcorn and chewing it slowly. Clint joined them on the lounge but said nothing, keeping his eyes on the screen and the smirk off his face.

"Old spy movie. James Bond." He barely acknowledged either of the assassins, pulling the bowl of popcorn towards his body defensively. That didn't stop either one of them from getting to it though, and Tony found himself in the uncomfortable position of sharing his food, his lounge and his movie with the two.

Natasha knew exactly what she was doing. "That is ridiculous. If he had fired the shot before jumping it undoubtedly would have hit its mark."

Tony tried to keep himself from being annoyed. But after two or three more comments like this, he couldn't help but turn his head and say, "If you don't stop speaking, I'm going to throw you out the window."

"I'd like to see you try that, Stark, I really would," Clint drawled, reaching over and taking the bowl of popcorn from Tony's hands. Popping a handful into his mouth, he chewed slowly and watched as Tony tried to stare Tasha down.

Staring down Natasha 'the Black Widow' Romanoff, master assassin, was no easy task. She gave him a killer glare of her own and, without taking her eyes off him, murmured "If he tried that in an actual fight, he would break his lower spine."

"I quit. Watch the damn movie, take the popcorn, I don't care." Stark marched out of the room, grabbing his iPad on the way and muttering something about "goddamned assassins always having their way". Tasha grinned and leaned into Clint, taking a piece of popcorn and settling in to watch the movie properly.

"Guess we get our date night after all."


	2. Idiot Billionaire, Drunken Inventor

Steve was on his way up to his quarters when he was informed by JARVIS that Mr Stark was up in the labs and possibly required his assistance. Sighing, he looped his towel around his neck and went up another level, hoping whatever Stark required assistance for wouldn't take long. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case.

It seemed Tony had gotten bored and decided to work on his Iron Man after all, accompanied by the appropriately loud music and a bottle of scotch. The combination of delicate machinery, tools and alcohol had gone together as well as could be expected.

"Tony, you're bleeding!" He kneeled beside the intoxicated inventor and grabbed at the man's arm, pulling it closer to examine the gushing wound.

"No, really? Am I? Didn't notice," Tony slurred, staring up at Steve with a clumsy approximation to a grin. "Look, Cap!" He smeared a little blood over his eyelid and pointed. "Red, white and blue!"

"Tony, stop. You're drunk. Keep still, please. I'm calling Bruce."

He shook his head furiously, pulling away and spilling blood over both himself and Steve. "I'm fine, Stevie. S'just a scratch."

It was not just a scratch. It was quite a bit deeper, and more bloody, than just a scratch. It seemed to have been caused by a saw resting nearby - what Tony could have been using it for he wasn't quite sure. As he folded his towel and pressed it into the wound, he wondered for the billionth time since coming to live at Stark Tower if Tony Stark was his own, personal punishment. As Tony went to take another swig from the near-empty bottle beside him, Steve tore it from his hands and placed it on the bench above them. By now he was used to drunken antics, but he hadn't seen Tony like this in quite a while. "Jarvis, get Natasha, please."

 _Certainly, sir._  The AI was prompt at summoning Natasha, who stalked into the labs with the fury of an oncoming storm. She had been enjoying her night with Barton. After the stupid Bond movie they'd found something decent to watch and were having their first real night of downtime in months. She was beginning to suspect Stark was out to ruin it on purpose. Not even the sight of his bloody arm was enough to make her relent in her glare, or lighten her tone. "What did you do?"

"I was working on the armour...and then I got a saw out to test its invulnerability." Tony was fairly articulate, though stupid, for a drunk. He was still giving the two of them his lopsided smile and disliked it greatly when Natasha slapped him across the back of the head.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Stark? Steve, go and get the first aid kit, it's under that sink. I'll stitch him up and you can dump him in bed to sleep this off. The blood can be cleaned up in the morning." She ignored Tony's protests as she stitched up the wound and dressed it, barking at him to keep still. He did so reluctantly and was unwilling to move from the floor when she was done, so Steve scooped him up like a child and carried him to his room. Natasha followed them, only to make sure he actually got there; it wasn't unlike Stark to very smoothly talk his way out of a situation. She threw the glass bottle into a nearby trash can on her way out and requested JARVIS to lock the labs if Tony tried to come back for any reason.

"Thanks mommy. Don't tell Pepper." Stark was smirking as he got deposited rather ungraciously onto his bed by Steve, with Natasha glaring at him from the doorway. Tony had been becoming increasingly stupid since the Chitauri attack, and spent more time in a drunken stupor than could possibly be healthy. She knew the bottle of scotch was nowhere near all he'd drunk that day, but she and Steve both continued to delude themselves that this was nothing more than a onetime incident. Her tone was frosty as she went to leave the room.

"Goodnight, Stark."

As she and Steve made their way back downstairs - her to Clint and the movies awaiting them, he to his room - he turned to her with a frown. She shook her head before he could speak and quietly told him to leave it for now. It could be dealt with in the morning.


	3. Good Morning

There was a rattle as the curtains were thrown open and sunlight streamed into the room, harsh and unforgiving. The brightness burned his eyes and made him hiss in annoyance; he buried his head into his pillow and closed them tightly. His head was filled with spikes of pain and his arm was throbbing for reasons he wasn't entirely clear on. There were far too loud footsteps coming towards him, the sound of heels clicking on the floor. The bedcovers were thrown off and a sharp voice snapped, "Anthony Edward Stark, get  _up_."

He groaned and reached for the blankets, only to have his hand slapped away. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, he raised his head and asked, "What time is it?"

"Time for you to get out of bed. Natasha told me what happened last night. Anything to say for yourself, Tony?"

"I had a good time, up until the blood thing." Tony sat up, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the stab of pain from his arm. He glanced down at it, dismissing the bandage and the pain before looking around the rest of his room. Pepper was standing in front of him, arms folded, entirely unimpressed. He almost expected her to start yelling, but she just shook her head and walked away. With a quick look to the clock, he frowned and pulled himself out of bed, intending to go down to the kitchen and get something to eat. His head swam momentarily and he groaned again, clutching at his throbbing skull and quietly wondering why he still bothered getting up without anyone to force him. Well, he knew why, but that was beside the point. Grabbing yesterdays pants, which he seemed to have removed before he got into bed the night before, and a shirt that had been thrown over his dresser, he began the laborious task of getting dressed. Punctuated with muttered profanity and cries of pain.

Down in the kitchen everything was quiet, as Natasha was the only one awake already and preferred to spend her mornings in silence. He began to make the beginnings of something breakfast-ish, before remembering he'd had no coffee yet. Tony reached for the coffeepot and turned to grab his mug, only to find himself face-to-face with Banner. Jumping backwards with a yelp, he dropped the apple he'd been clutching in one hand and froze at the look on Bruce's face.

"Bruce, buddy. What's up?"

"Blood in my lab, Tony. Care to explain?" Bruce usually had an excellent poker face when it came to how he felt. It didn't seem like this was going to be such a time, because he was giving Tony a look that made use of the phrase if looks could kill. Tony secretly suspected he'd been having lessons off Maria Hill or even Fury himself to perfect that look.

"First off, it's not your lab, it's my lab. You just happen to use it most. Second, didn't Agent Tattletale over there tell you already?" He gestured to Natasha, who was sitting at the counter with a newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other. She didn't look up from what she was reading, merely tilting her head with the tiniest smirk.

"She's a spy, Tony, she tells secrets for a living. But I'd much rather hear your side of the story." Bruce's tone had shifted from annoyed to sarcastic. Tony didn't really understand what the problem was. Bruce was a pushover with everything until someone or something screwed with his lab, and it seemed what he'd done (he tried to claim that "it wasn't even that much blood, Banner, seriously") constituted 'screwing with the lab'. He got to sit through a twenty-minute lecture on how there were several delicate experiments currently inside that lab and possible contamination to any of them could have disastrous results, continuing on with how expensive some of the equipment was and no, Tony, just because you can afford to replace it does not mean you should actively seek out to destroy it. It didn't end until everyone, including Pepper, had joined them in the kitchen. Once he was done, Bruce looked reasonably satisfied with his rant, and somewhat pleased no one had even implied he might be close to hulking out.

"Anybody got plans for today?" Tony had stopped listening halfway through the rant, already distracted by an idea forming in his mind.

"We're confined to the tower, Stark, you know we don't have any plans." Steve was slicing a banana over his cereal, already feeling apprehensive by the look on Tony's face. Tony's expression turned positively gleeful at the reminder, and as he poured himself a coffee, he turned to grin at the rest of the room.

"Then I suggest, my fellow Avengers and associates...we have a water fight."


	4. The Great Water War of 2012

He didn't think things through. It was a trait that made him both a talented inventor, and a very dangerous idiot at times. This moment was one of those times.

Everyone in the room had been quick to refuse Tony's suggestion, using the excuses of "Tony it is October" and "That's the worst idea you've had in a week, and I'm including the decision to work on your suit while drunk". Tony ignored the chatter and protest, merely bending over to retrieve something from a cupboard under the bench. When he straightened, he pulled out a water gun, pointed it straight to Natasha's face, and pulled the trigger.

The entire room was silent for a moment as Natasha stood completely still, water dripping down her nose. She lifted one hand and wiped a few droplets away, her cold gaze turning to Tony. The grin dropped from his face as her expression changed from calm to determined and he started to sprint.

There was a scramble as everyone followed after the two of them, not wanting to miss out on any of the action. Steve mumbled a quiet prayer that this wouldn't end in any kind of fatality. Tony obviously couldn't outrun a fully trained field agent with years of experience, but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to try. She caught up with him at the end of the hall and pounced, tackling him to the ground and straddling him in what appeared to be a very painful and twisty manner. One hand at his throat, squeezing with just enough force to keep him incapacitated, she snatched the water gun out of his hand and held it tight in her right hand, her eyes running over it.

Clint came up behind her and placed one hand on her shoulder, urging her to let go as Tony struggled underneath her. He knew that she couldn't kill him with her grip alone, but that amount of pressure on a person's windpipe for too long was incredibly uncomfortable and could cause some very obvious bruising - he knew from personal experience. Her green eyes flickered between the man gasping her breath under her hand, the gun she currently held, and Clint's face. She relaxed her grip on Tony's neck and wrinkled her still-dripping nose. With nothing more than a tiny smile as warning, she tilted the gun and sprayed Clint in the face.

Pepper and Steve shared an exasperated look as Tony threw himself away from the two assassins, who began wrestling over the water gun. He somehow produced two more already-full guns and sprayed them both, turning and running before they realised what was happening. Steve watched as Clint ordered JARVIS to tell them where the rest of the water guns were kept and then set off to arm himself. Tasha went after Tony, still holding hers tightly.

"Very mature of them. We live with adults who are capable of killing people, and decide to have a water fight instead." Pepper sighed and put her fingers at her temple, gently massaging the headache she could feel coming on. "I'm not cleaning this up. Go on, then, join in. I can tell you want to."

Steve stared at her seriously for a second before grinning and running after Clint, calling for him to wait up and hand over a gun. Pepper walked back into the kitchen, glancing over to Bruce, who hadn't moved from his seat. "Going to join them?" She asked.

"I don't want to elevate my heartbeat unnecessarily." He picked up the newspaper Natasha had been reading and shook his head, a tiny smile forming on his face at the shouts that could be heard outside the kitchen. He was left with little choice over joining in when Tony walked up behind him and dumped a bucket of water over his head, soaking his shirt, hair and newspaper. As he got up, he grabbed a discarded water gun from nearby and filled it up. It was _on_.

* * *

The water fight (or, as it was later referred to in official SHIELD documentation, the Great Water War) lasted for several hours throughout the rest of the day, with scheduled five-minute breaks every half an hour to refill and do any other necessary tasks. They were on the fourth floor, sopping wet with no intention of stopping, when JARVIS informed them there was a video call coming in from SHIELD headquarters.

As Fury's face filled the wall opposite them, they all froze in place, looking between each other guiltily. Natasha and Clint immediately stood to attention; Bruce stood as far back as he could, his eyes low; Steve folded his arms and glared at Tony, who dropped his gun and held his hands up.

"What," Fury's voice was scarily calm, "are you doing?"

"Water fight, sir." Natasha was quick to respond, trying to look as dignified as possible. This was difficult as a wet strand of red hair was hanging over one eye. She flicked it back and stood straight again.

"I can see that, thank you, Agent Romanoff. May I ask whose idea it was to upload footage of the beginnings of this water fight to YouTube under the title 'Tony Stark's Suicide Attempt'?"

"That was Banner, sir."

"Hey!" Bruce looked up. "It was your idea, Natasha."

Natasha kept her face blank, but she turned her head ever-so-slightly and gave Bruce a tiny, teasing smile. Clint cleared his throat, looking down; actually, it had been his idea, but he wasn't going to admit that when Fury looked so... _furious._  Fury's eye turned to Tony, who had for once kept his mouth shut. He couldn't, however, keep the grin off his face.

"The Avengers are a team who are entrusted with the safety of the world on a regular basis. Do you really think it is good public relations for civilians to see their protectors acting like a group of unruly schoolchildren?"

"I think it's excellent public relations, actually, sir. It shows that at heart we are all still people." Captain Steve Rogers was no stranger to pranks in his army days, and he had learned a long time ago how to talk his way out of a situation with an angry superior. This was made marginally more difficult by the fact he was currently shirtless and dripping with water. "It has also performed as a team-building exercise, sir."

"Clean yourselves up. Delete that video off YouTube if it hasn't been done already, and do not take any calls from the press, because believe me there will be many. SHIELD is going to handle the public relations side of things here, and if I hear word of the five of you pulling stupid shit like this again, I'll-"

"You'll what, sir? Ground us? We're already confined to the tower." Tony had finally chosen to speak up, crossing his arms and giving Director Fury a doubtful look. Fury glared back at him and disconnected the call.

Closing his eyes, Director Fury sighed and swore quietly under his breath. He never wanted children. But apparently, what he wanted and what the universe decided to give him were two very different things.


	5. Sleeping, or a Lack Thereof

Clint couldn't sleep. Or more accurately, he didn't want to.

Ever since Loki - Clint still shuddered at the name - had hijacked his mind he was afraid of losing control again, of having his every thought and memory laid bare for someone else to see and use to manipulate him. Or worse, to manipulate Tasha.

So he sat in the kitchen with a strong cup of coffee, because he'd be lying if he said he wasn't exhausted.

Sometimes it was easy to fall asleep. He'd just close his eyes, relax and drift away sort of pleasantly. Sometimes he'd get in bed but would stay half-awake and staring at the roof for most of the night. Worst of it though would be the nights he'd finally make it to sleep, only to be jarred awake just hours later by a dream he could never remember.

This was one of those nights. After the third shock awake, he decided to go downstairs and grab a coffee. There was no point fighting what his body wanted, and what it currently wanted was for him to be fully conscious.

He was unsurprised to find Tony downstairs, given his teammate's reputation for odd hours. They ignored each other, mostly. Clint sipped at his coffee, turning the pages of the newspaper, trying to decipher the pages where the ink had ran. Tony was silently playing with a ping pong ball, bouncing it off a wall and back into his hand, over and over. The repetitive beat eventually lulled Tony to sleep; the bounces became slower and slower until finally they stopped and Tony was asleep on the floor, still sitting upright with his back against the bench, his head drooping to his chest.

Clint smiled and took another sip of his coffee.

There were footsteps coming softly down the hallway, a familiar gait that announced the presence of the legendary Captain America - or in this case, semi-conscious Steve who just wanted a glass of milk before crawling back to bed.

They nodded at each other in greeting, a mutual respect of those who cannot sleep. Steve sat down opposite Clint with his glass, taking slow and small drinks and rubbing at his eyes.

"Can't sleep?" He asked, stating the obvious just for something to state.

"Yeah. You know what it's like." Clint nodded his head towards Tony. "He was awake for awhile too, but drifted off about an hour ago."

"I just assumed he was having another of those days where he'd forgotten what room he was in and slept where he was."

Both of them laughed quietly, somewhat bitterly. That happened more often than they cared to admit. Steve's eyes flickered to the half-empty bottle sitting conspicuously above Tony's head. His gaze fell to the magic marker sitting on the table, probably left from where Bruce had been doing sudoku earlier. Steve picked it up and toyed with it in his hands thoughtfully. Clint took on a slightly sinister smile and looked down at Tony's sleeping form.

"No." Steve seemed to read his mind, dropping the marker and resting his head on his hand. "That'd just be cruel."

"Come on, soldier boy. You were an artist. Live a little."

Steve picked up the marker again, uncapping it with a nervous smile and looking over at Tony. He exhaled and shook his head, handing it to Clint. "You do it. What will you draw, anyway?"

"I could think of a commonly graffitied symbol that sums up Stark's personality pretty well...but you're right, that would be cruel. I'll write something."

A few ideas were bounced between the two of them before they agreed to draw an arrow on one of Tony's cheeks and a star on the other. It was basically, Clint told him, just the two of them getting back at Stark for the water fight (though neither of them would admit it, the water fight was possibly the highlight of their year.) Tony didn't even stir as the marks were added to his face.

Steve sat with Clint for another hour and he couldn't help but grin every time he saw Stark's face.

"I wonder what his father would say."

"Hm?" In the comfortable silence Clint had returned to the newspaper, trying to understand an article on...something hysteria. He wasn't sure because the paper was so badly damaged any hopes of understanding certain sections was ruined. But he was a spy, dammit, and he got paid to read heavily damaged documents while under fire. Reading this newspaper while in the kitchen should have been nothing more than a game. "Aren't you tired?"

"A little bit." Steve got up to rinse out his glass out of sheer habit more than anything, with a fond smile at the memory of his mother lecturing him whenever he forgot to do so. "I don't really like sleeping these days."

They shared a brief look as Clint nodded in understanding. With a quick glance to the clock, he sighed and said, "If you go back to bed now you could get a couple of hours before the sun's up."

Steve doubted that, but he nodded and smiled. "Yeah, I think I will. Goodnight."

"Night." Clint refilled his coffee, picked up his newspaper and watched as Steve walked away. He looked at the clock again and decided to go and see Tasha.

* * *

Natasha didn't sleep. It wasn't that she didn't want to, but the unending paranoia of a spy ran through her very being. She didn't sleep. She watched, and waited.

Of course, she did sleep sometimes. It was even easy, some nights. This wasn't one of those nights.

Her eyes barely left her computer screen, aside from the occasional sweep of her surroundings. Her handgun sat on the desk beside her, there was a knife strapped to her ankle, and it was doubtful anyone could attack her and win. But still she looked just in case.

She was unsurprised when the door behind her opened and could see Clint's reflection in the window. She looked over to him with a tired smile.

"What are you doing?" He asked softly, walking over and examining the screen. On it was a split screen of four seperate images that changed every six seconds or so. Clint could see the kitchen, the lounge, the labs, all of downstairs. The only rooms not displayed were the bedrooms.

"It's the security footage for Stark Tower."

"Yeah, Tash, I got that. Why?"

She shrugged, slightly uncomfortable, but knowing Clint would understand. "So I can see everything's okay."

He nodded and sat beside her, forcing her to scooch over so they could both sit somewhat easily on the chair. "Did you hack into Tony's system or what?"

"No. I asked Jarvis nicely."

They both laughed and leaned into the other's body. Tasha shuddered from the chill in the air. Winter was definitely on its way. Fall was one of her favourite seasons, just not in New York. She liked to see red leaves with a sharp chill in the air and the scent of fresh rain; here in the city it was grey concrete with the uncomfortable warmth of too many people in one area, and the scent of exhaust fumes and people and god knows what else.

"Wish we were back in Massachusetts. Boston was great."

Sometimes she wondered if Clint Barton was some kind of psychic, but she knew it was just a knack for reading people. "You and I remember Boston very differently."

He kept talking to her, his voice low and calm, never in monotone but never changing pitch drastically. He laughed softly and agreed they did remember Boston, Budapest, Miami, and a great deal of other places very differently. He started to tell her his side of the Miami story again. Natasha found herself getting drowsy, but she didn't want to sleep yet. She tried to keep her eyes on the screen and focus, but slowly her head fell onto Clint's shoulder and her eyes drifted shut. She trusted him to keep an eye on things. Just for a couple of hours.


	6. Time for Battle

Clint wondered if Tony Stark ever stopped moving. It didn't seem so. After scrubbing his face clean with a string of inappropriate words about Clint's mother, Tony had thrown himself into making breakfast for everyone. At six o'clock in the morning. When he and Clint were the only ones up. He was trying to fry eggs and make pancakes and had yelled for JARVIS to wake everyone up and tell them to get dressed. While waiting for everything to cook and heat up and toast and fry, he was cleaning the kitchen. He attacked the bench with a cloth, wiped down the fridge, washed out everything in the sink and shoved it into the dishwasher. When that was done he slammed the dishwasher door shut, spun around and tapped his fingers nervously.

"Stark, stop fidgeting, please. It's too early for you to be...you." Exhaustion was finally starting to cloud Clint's mind and body, but his second (third?) cup of coffee was helping that. A little bit.

"I can't help it. I'm bored." Of course he was bored. He'd been stuck in the tower for three days. Any menial distraction was long past helping.

"Well go annoy Bruce, please. Just for half an hour...please."

"I can't. He banned me from the labs. Again."

Clint covered his face with one hand, struggling to smother his laughter. Though at this point it wasn't amused laughter, no, it was the kind of laughter one has when they're reaching the end of their rope. Tony knew this, he could tell just from the look on Clint's face. "You created Jarvis, just override the ban."

"He overrided my override." Tony really wasn't sure how that happened. Clint was right, he had created JARVIS, so shouldn't the AI take his command over that of Bruce? Then again, he reminded himself, Bruce was every bit as smart as he was. It wouldn't have taken him much work to do so...probably.

"It's overrode, Tony, not 'overrided'."

"It's six thirty, what do you expect?"

Pepper arrived to the kitchen, dressed in one of Tony's shirts and a pair of shorts. Her feet were bare, her hair was a mess, and Clint got the strong feeling she'd been hoping to sleep in today judging from her livid expression. She shot Tony an impatient glare and crossed her arms. "Jarvis said you wanted me down here?"

"Good morning!" Tony put a plate of food down on the table and kissed her on the cheek. "Look, I made breakfast, sit down and eat!"

Her face went from angry to alarmed and she gave Clint a questioning look. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. She sat down and stared at the plate full of food in front of her. As she started to eat, Tony dumped a plate down in front of Clint. He tried to push it away and refuse, but all Tony said was "I have a feeling you'll regret this later if you don't eat now," with a knowing glance to the television. Clint followed Tony's gaze to the news report on screen, showing Baltimore. Or at least, what was left of Baltimore. As Tony's phone began to ring he picked up the fork and started to eat, because he had a feeling Tony was right.

Natasha was the next downstairs, looking as immaculate as ever, already suited up and armed to the teeth. She accepted a plate off Tony with a quiet thankyou and sat down beside Clint. Pepper shot her one of _those looks_  and she removed the two guns from her sides, placing them on the table behind her. Another look and the knife around her ankle joined the guns. Both spies laughed quietly and returned to breakfast. It had been a little over four months since Pepper had created the 'no weapons at the table' rule, but it wasn't without good reason. Natasha still swore it had been Tony's own fault for sneaking up on Clint, but Clint was quite happy to admit it hadn't really been an accident.

Steve stumbled in, wearing only his boxers and a shirt. He groaned and stretched, taking his plate from Pepper and sitting across from the assassins. He could hear Tony babbling into the phone but was too tired to clearly make out any words. "Who's he talking to?" He muttered, head resting on one hand.

"Fury," Clint replied, with a nod in the direction of the TV. Steve turned his head to look behind him and let out a low whistle. That looked nasty and awfully familiar. A war zone in the middle of a city.

"No, we don't need debriefing, I already know the situation. What? No, I didn't - okay, yeah, I hacked into SHIELD files again, but hey, saves a debriefing, right?" Tony's voice carried across the kitchen, as did Fury's. Tony held the phone away from his ear and flinched.

Steve nearly choked on his pancakes, struggling not to laugh. He coughed and took a sip of his drink, looking slightly affronted by some of the phrases that could be heard from the phone's speaker. As the swearing quietened down, Tony returned the phone to his ear and resumed talking in his unusually fast-paced manner. The others quickly finished breakfast as he disconnected the call.

"Right!" Tony clapped his hands together and did a quick head count. "We've got everyone? Yes? Good? Okay, let's go, there's a quinjet waiting for us on the roof."

"Tony!" Pepper called after him. "You're forgetting somebody!"

"Forgetting somebody? Who? I've got everyone. Assassin, Spy, Soldier, Tony, Rage mons- oh. Rage monster. Jarvis, tell Bruce to meet us on the roof!"

And with that he was off again. The assassin, spy and soldier shared weary looks before they got up to follow him. Pepper handed both Steve and Clint their suits, both of them wondering when she'd had time to grab them. Natasha re-armed herself and stretched, cracking her neck. Bruce joined them, silent and looking like hell. Nobody spoke as they made their way up to the roof.

"Well don't you four look like badasses?" Tony grinned at them and pointed to the jet. Tasha tucked her hair behind her ears, Clint flicked open his bow, and Steve halfheartedly accepted his shield off Tony. The five of them climbed up into the quinjet and took their seats, pointedly ignoring the SHIELD agent who'd obviously been assigned to guard them.

It was time for battle.


	7. The Battle for Baltimore City

"What's your name, Agent?" For someone in a committed relationship, Tony Stark was not shy to using a rather flirtatious tone of voice on the nearest available woman. The poor SHIELD agent, a short girl who couldn't be much older than twenty, was staring at him with an entirely blank look not unlike the ones Natasha gave him. He had a feeling it was part of SHIELD training.

There was a few moments of tense silence before she gave her reply in a flat tone, as if she had much better things to do than take Tony's shit today. "Morales. Agent Morales."

"So you're stuck on babysitting duty huh? Who'd you piss off, Hill or Fury?"

"Deputy Director Hill and I had a minor disagreement."

"And how long have you been with SHIELD?" Tony smirked at her, leaning up on the wall with one hand above her head and ignoring the disgusted looks he was receiving from both Steve and Bruce. Bruce was half considering walking up there and slapping Tony straight across the face. He respected Pepper too much to watch this absolutely pathetic attempt without saying something, but decided to leave it for a few more minutes and give Tony the benefit of the doubt. He hadn't really done anything yet.

"Agent Sitwell has informed me not to release personal information. Especially, he said, to you." Alisande Morales was a smart girl. It was obvious just by looking at her, from her keen gaze going over the room and expressionless face. She knew better than to speak to Stark, but he was a persistent bastard.

"Three weeks, then." He turned to Natasha, who was glaring at him rather angrily. "Three weeks?"

"Tony, leave her alone," She snapped, loading her gun and checking there was spare ammunition in the pouches across her hips. He'd been trying to flirt with Agent Morales ever since he'd laid eyes on her, but it was rather like flirting to a brick wall; she barely responded and the harder he tried the more pathetic it got. It was almost like the suave Tony Stark they all knew and hated had disappeared and been replaced by this ridiculous copy. Clint was wondering if he should tell Natasha that Tony's BAC probably wasn't down to a relatively normal level yet, before dismissing the idea; she could probably tell just by looking at him. It wasn't overly obvious, but there was definitely something off about him, from his semi-joking flirtatious voice and cocky grin.

"So, newbie, got your codename yet? We've got codenames. I'm Iron Man, and that's Captain America and the Hulk. I'm sure you heard plenty about Black Widow and Hawkeye in training."

"With all due respect, sir, it is not a codename if your civilian identity is public. It is an alias. And no," She added, "I have not yet done anything to require a codename."

Natasha decided she liked the rookie.

"How about Babysitter? Seems appropriate." Tony grinned at Agent Morales, who stared straight ahead, finally having had enough of him.

"What did your disagreement with Maria involve, anyway?" Now Tony was legitimately curious and slightly fascinated by the new agent, who was still determinedly ignoring him. When three minutes went without a reply, he started to get annoyed. As it approached six, he narrowed his eyes at her.

"I hear she hides the bodies of rookies that displease her underneath the floorboards of her office."

Still no reply.

"I could hide your body underneath the floorboards of my office. Except my office doesn't have floorboards. More like polished marble floors. But I could still hide your body under there."

"Tony, enough." Bruce was starting to get annoyed with his idiot of a best friend.

Agent Morales flicked her eyes to him with a disbelieving smile, one hand moving to her sidearm. Natasha decided she definitely liked the rookie. "I doubt that, Mr Stark."

Bruce dragged Tony back over to his seat and forced him to sit down, snapping at him quietly to cut it out. Tony glared at him but did as he was told, piecing together his armour the closer they got to the city. Bruce stripped down to his pants, leaving his shirt, socks, shoes and a spare pair of pants in a bag stashed behind the seat. Clint restrung his bow and stocked up his quiver as Steve pulled on his mask. Natasha was the only one already prepared, so she tasked herself with handing out earpieces to everybody but Stark, whose armour was already linked up with them, and Bruce, because once he hulked out he really wouldn't need one. Agent Morales was slightly surprised to be handed one, but nodded in understanding; if they required backup, she would be the one to make the call.

The engines whirred as they began their descent and Natasha stretched once more. She was ready for this. It wasn't hard - a gang war turned sour. Sure, it had turned sour to the point of all-out guerrilla warfare, but the point was it wouldn't take long to clean up. Take out a couple of snipers, disable a few bombs, they'd be home by dinner, or so she thought.

* * *

Nick Fury was not a bad man. An amoral man, perhaps, but not necessarily bad. If there was some information that was mostly irrelevant to a mission, he'd leave it out of official documentation and reports. If Tony Stark decided to hack into that documentation and refuse to be debriefed on a situation, whatever trouble he got into was entirely his fault.

Even so, Nick Fury probably should have mentioned the gang war was between two separate mutant militia groups.

* * *

"Son of a gun! There's a young lady down here who just walked straight through me!"

"That's a phaser, Cap, keep the hell away from her!"

Steve dodged the girl who walked through him as she took a swing at his head. Tattoos glowed violet across her body, marking patterns across her skin and giving her that same unique glow around the fist she was aiming at his face. He sidestepped it and took a swipe at her ankles with one foot, effectively knocking her off-balance. Hawkeye was still barking orders in his ear, completely aware that the good captain was not really experienced in fighting mutants - especially not when some of them weren't much older than sixteen.

"I'm sorry, miss." He offered his hand down to the girl sprawled on the pavement, whose tattoos had faded to a regular purple. She glanced at his hand for half a second before she began to glow again and threw herself at him, a flurry of fists and feet. He pulled up his shield to block the next punch, leaning backwards as her arm went through it, fingers outstretched as she snatched at his throat.

Before he could somehow throw her off, she screamed in pain and fell backwards, revealing the familiar red-and-gold armour of Iron Man. He didn't bother asking as Tony slapped a mechanical collar around the twitching girl's neck, just moving onto the next lot of fighting psychos. He didn't know how these people were able to do these unusual things, but he was certain it wasn't something impossible. Seventy years ago he wouldn't have believed they existed. It was hard to not believe in something when it was pitching a fireball at your face.

"Captain, cover Black Widow!"

Slamming his shield into fire-thrower's face and ignoring the crack that sounded, he jumped away from the next attacker and ran his way up a ladder to the roof. Widow had taken refuge in a nook cut into the edge of the building, but a couple of straggling roof-fighters were about to drop in on her.

Natasha was grateful for the cries of pain behind her. She fired off another shot to one of the monstrous attackers from below and turned to look at a scream of pain, a scream that sounded a lot like Steve when she 'accidentally' hit him in more  _delicate_  areas during sparring. There was a crackle that sounded a lot like an electrical surge somewhere to her right. She looked back just in time to be hit in the face by a crackling barb. The force of the blow knocked her straight off the edge the building and then she was falling.

Air whooshed past her and something snatched her hand, cold metal closing around her wrist. The force of the sudden stop tore her shoulder out of its socket and there was a muffled cry of inappropriate language before she was falling again.

SHIELD bodysuits were designed to offer as much protection to the human body as possible. But no matter the amount of armour integrated into her suit, or the approved alterations she'd allowed Stark to make on it, there wasn't a lot a sturdy piece of fabric could do against gravity and four inches of concrete.

"Babysitter, this is Iron Man. Black Widow is down."


	8. Full Recovery

She coughed in a confused way and blinked tears from her eyes. It felt like every inch of her had been scraped raw, doused in fuel and set alight. Something hot and sticky was pooling around her shoulder and hip. It dripped into her eyes and clouded her vision, this hot sticky wet thing, and bozhe moi, why did it hurt so bad?

Natasha Romanoff was no stranger to pain, but as she struggled to breathe she knew there was something very, very wrong. She coughed again and tried to sit up, flinching at the sickening crunch that sounded. Something was broken, something was very badly broken. Distantly there was shouting, screaming, the familiar rattle of rapid gunfire. Struggling to breathe, she ran her fingers over her abdomen until she found the source of the blood. Her fingers dug into it, squelching through blood, fat and muscle. She hissed in pain and pulled them out, pushing her hand over the injury. A flesh wound, it was just a flesh wound.

A wordless cry passed her lips as she tried to move again. Something more than the flesh wound, more than the broken bones. Her heart pounded furiously against her chest, faster than it should have. Too much faster.

There was something very, very wrong. The pain began to hit a point she didn't think possible. She felt almost euphoric in its strength and wheezed as it started to feel like there was fire in her bones, twisting through her body, burning her into ash. She stopped trying to move and gave up at coughing. No point panicking now.

"Natasha!" Someone was screaming her name. That was nice, she thought hazily. Someone screaming for her. "NATASHA!"

She felt somebody touching her face gently, delicately, like they were afraid she would break. She opened her eyes to find herself staring into the wide blue eyes of Steve Rogers. That was good, then. The star spangled man with a plan would know what to do.

* * *

There was a distant, rational part of Clint's mind that was telling him that this wasn't actually Stark's fault. He was telling that part of his mind to get fucked.

Tony's breath caught in his throat as he was thrown up against the wall and pinned there, two very strong hands in a death grip on his shirt. His addled brain took a minute but managed to decipher the meaning behind the abusive stream of language running from Clint's mouth. Natasha's hurt. It's your fault.

His body went limp and he stopped struggling at the realisation that was undoubtedly true. If he'd been a bit more focused, a bit more careful, just a bit faster, he'd have made it to Tasha in time. But he hadn't been focused, or careful, he hadn't made it, and now Natasha was on the operating table.

And it was entirely his fault.

He dropped to the cold linoleum flood as Barton released him and turned away, covering his face with one hand and taking careful breaths. When he turned back to Tony, who was still on the floor staring sadly at some point in the distance, he sighed.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault."

He noticed Tony had sort of curled up into himself, for once without argument. Bruce had kneeled beside him with one hand on his arm, trying to awaken him from whatever this state was. His brow furrowed as Tony pulled himself to his feet with Bruce's help. Bruce's nose wrinkled, trying to ignore the scent of sweat and alcohol that seemed to seep from every pore in Tony's body. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "I'm sorry I messed up."

"Tony, it's okay. Really." Bruce directed him to a chair and sat him down, shooting a look at Clint, who was clenching his fists and trying not to lose his temper again. The sight of the pathetically guilty man set him on edge and he turned away, glaring at the ground.

Tony mumbled something about needing a drink and Clint turned back seeing red. "You need a drink? No. Hell no. Tasha nearly got killed because you live off scotch and vodka and came onto a mission drunk. If she dies tonight, Stark, I'm going to remove your fucking head and stick it on the top of the Empire State."

"Clint," Bruce said warningly, putting one hand on the man's chest and pushing him back. "Now's not the time."

"Yeah, Clint, now's not the time." Tony mumbled into his shirt, keeping his eyes away from the others.

"Tony, shut up." Bruce caught Clint's fist before it hit Tony in the face and pushed him back further. "Clint, just leave it until he's sober."

"What's going on in here?" Steve walked in, mask in hand. He sighed and ran one hand over his hair, shaking his head slowly at the sight of Bruce holding Clint back and Tony making puppy-like eyes up at him. He stared at them until Bruce backed away from Clint, who let go of Tony's shirt, which he'd seized again on the verge of throttling some sense into him. The four men gave each other cautious looks before all sitting in a row together, Bruce and Steve separating Tony from Clint. With everyone sitting in silence time began to pass very slowly in the waiting room.

"Excuse me? Are you the family of Natasha Romanoff?" A young doctor walked into the room with a tight grip on a clipboard in his hands. He looked the four men over, frowning for a second, as they all stood with the exception of Tony.

"We're Natasha's family. Is she going to be alright?" Steve took the lead when it became obvious Clint couldn't bring himself to speak.

"There's been some minor contusion and laceration to the brain with subdural hematoma. Bilateral rib fractures with injury to the heart and lungs, dislocated shoulder, abdominal injury but thankfully nothing that can't be fixed. "

"English please, doc."

"Uh," The doctor looked up from his clipboard. "Essentially she's a very injured young woman, but she's likely to make a full recovery. None of the damage looks permanent but at this stage it's difficult to say. It will however take at least six to nine months to completely heal."

"But she's okay?" Clint was finally able to find his voice. The doctor nodded, explaining again she was okay for now. He sighed and fell back down into his chair, the tension leaving his shoulders. He was visibly shaking. Bruce wasn't sure who looked like more of a wreck, the guilt stricken alcoholic or the shaking and scared assassin.

"She's okay, Clint." Bruce sat down between the two again and put one hand on his shoulder while Steve continued to speak to the doctor quietly about recovery. He nodded but shifted away from the gentle hand, too nervous to accept any comfort. He just sat still and repeated the words to himself quietly.  _Natasha's okay._


	9. Nights Like These

Steve rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and yawned, tugging gently at the bandage that circled his head. While he healed much faster than his teammates, the doctors had insisted it had been a bit more than "just a nasty bump" to the head, and forced him to keep the healing cuts and scrapes covered. He made his way downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake anyone. Natasha was out of hospital and healing faster than anticipated, but she was still bedridden and needed a lot of rest. Tony, for once, had been forced to go to bed early by Bruce, who had been nearly falling asleep by dinner. It had been a long couple of days and they were all beginning to feel the effects of fatigue. Nobody had really been sleeping well.

He groaned as he dropped the plastic cup he'd carried downstairs with the intention of refilling it and going straight back upstairs to bed. He kneeled to pick it up, glad he'd had the sense to put on a pair of shoes to protect his feet against the icy floor.

He was unsurprised to find Clint watching the television with bleary, sleep-filled eyes. Wordlessly he walked over and sat down beside him. Clint pulled himself over to the other side of the couch so there was more room, hardly taking his eyes off whatever he was watching, which was...Steve wasn't really sure. It was one of those late-night talk shows, with some strange man in a suit up the front talking loudly and waving his arms around in an exaggerated way.

"What are we watching?"

"Late late show. Craig Ferguson." Clint's voice was monotone and again he didn't bother making eye contact, just staring at the screen with a look of vague indifference. Well, as indifferent as his face could currently get; through the bruised jaw, busted nose and dark-circled eyes, 'indifferent' came off more as 'in great pain'.

"Are you okay?" Steve couldn't help but feel concerned about his friend. As far as he knew, Clint hadn't gotten more than an hour's sleep since Baltimore, and it was starting to show. The shaking hands and general look of instability wasn't doing him much good, and his eyes kept drifting shut before snapping open. He couldn't tell if Clint couldn't sleep or wouldn't sleep - because if he was forcing himself to stay awake, he was doing a pretty poor job of it.

"Yeah. Of course. You?" He didn't even bother to try feigning interest, just listlessly sinking lower into the couch cushions. Steve reached over and switched off the television, ignoring the halfhearted protest from behind him. He turned to face Clint with the most adult expression he could give. Clint's eyes narrowed into a glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost into a smile. "Why are you looking at me like you're my dad?"

"Sorry." Steve sighed and relaxed, returning the smile. "You look tired, Clint."

"I'm not tired."

"Yes, you are."

Clint shook his head, folding his arms defensively and wincing as the movement sent his head spinning. He closed his eyes briefly, waiting for everything to right itself. When he opened them Steve was giving him the look again, mirroring Clint's pose. He sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes and muttering what could be considered an explicit sentence, if it was heard. Steve turned the TV back on, covering up the phrase with the canned laughter of a sitcom rerun. It was a show from the late eighties, probably one of the ones Tony and Bruce had been trying to get him to watch. He still didn't find it funny, but he did smile at one or two stupid little jokes. He shifted his weight, trying to relieve some of the discomfort of the sore muscles he seemed to have gained in combat. Steve definitely healed faster than the others, but not to full-on healing factor levels. He mused quietly over those two words – he'd been told before the fight in Baltimore there were people, nonhumans that could heal horrendous injuries within twenty seconds. The world had definitely changed since the forties.

"Tasha getting hurt was my fault."

He turned his head to the half-asleep assassin, frowning, not sure if he'd heard him properly. "Of course it wasn't. If anything it was mine, you told me to cover her and I didn't pay attention."

"You were on the roof. I was on the other roof, I should've seen. I'm the hawk. I see everything."

Steve put the dreamy and slurred voice down to the lack of sleep and sighed, shaking his head. He didn't bother to reply, letting Clint go back into his catatonic stare through the television. The worst thing was it definitely had been Steve's fault – he was certain of it. He was supposedly the perfect soldier, but he wasn't even capable of keeping a fellow comrade safe on a single mission. They'd collectively blamed Tony because he was an easy scapegoat, and he definitely should not have been on a mission without being entirely sober. Truthfully they were all a bit at fault – Clint had been uncharacteristically inattentive. Steve hadn't followed orders exactly. Natasha had allowed herself to be distracted. Tony hadn't caught her when she fell.

Really, the only one who'd been doing their job properly was Bruce. And all Bruce had done was thrown fighting mutants at buildings with a savage roar to top it off.

The Hulk was _very_  good at his job.

After an hour without speaking, Steve glanced back over to Clint. He snored softly, his head buried into the side of the couch. Overall he looked to be in a very uncomfortable position, but at least it was sleep. Steve got up and collected a blanket from one of the many cupboards in the room, throwing it over his teammate and turning off the TV with a flick of the remote. He turned on the tap and filled a glass with water, setting it on the table in front of Clint with a pack of Tylenol. He'd probably need it in the morning in order to relieve the stiff muscles that would definitely be gained from sleeping on the couch.

As Steve wandered back up to his room, his mind returned to Clint and Natasha once more. He didn't think he could convince the man that her injury was definitely not his fault. Or anyone's, really. It was an unfortunate mistake, an accident, a series of events leading up to her falling and getting hurt. He shook his head, trying to clear it; it was too late to properly focus on any problems right now. He exhaled slowly, kicking off his shoes by his bed and collapsing onto it with a halfhearted effort to pull on a sheet. His exhaustion finally caught up with him and, like Clint, he found himself in an uneasy slumber.


	10. Happy Halloween!

If being confined to the tower for four days had been torture, being confined to her bed was definitely hell. There was only so much daytime television and reruns she could watch before the glock sitting by her bed started to look very friendly. Clint had been an absolute saint, staying with her for hours and talking, or playing board games, but one more game of Candyland, Guess Who or Cluedo might just send her mad and force her to do something dramatic. She briefly envisioned setting the Candyland board on fire, a tiny smile crossing her face.

"Morning."

Her green eyes flicked away from the matches on her dresser to Clint, who stood in the doorway. If she was being honest, he looked like crap. If she was being nice, he looked a little tired. And sore, and bruised, and stiff. He really did look like crap. "Good morning."

"Any plans for today? We could pla-"

"If you suggest we play Cluedo again, I will eviscerate you." She gave him the most cheerful grin she could and was pleased to see him return it.

"Not my fault Stark hasn't got any decent games, Tash."

"But he does have decent ideas!" The man himself appeared, pushing past Clint and entering the room with a bag in hand. His face had been painted white, dark circles around his eyes and dark lines imitating a skull's mouth around his lips. Natasha and Clint both stared at him in disbelief and prepared themselves for a few minutes of Stark-related hyperactivity and insanity.

"Happy Halloween!" He plunged his hand into the bag and pulled out a green felt hat, placing it atop Clint's head where it perched precariously, a feather dangling into his eye. Natasha silently applauded him on his ability to keep a straight face and to not have broken several of Tony's toes yet.

"Tony-"

"You're Robin Hood, Legolas, get your bow. You don't need a costume, Natasha, you're already a mummy."

He grinned at her, his hand searching through the bag once more. Her eyes narrowed, looking over her bandaged arms and middle. They'd shaved a large patch of her hair off for the surgery, leaving her with only half a head of red curls. The other half was also tightly bandaged, with only a stitch or two visible. She frowned, confused, as Tony pulled out a handful of movies on DVD. "Uh, Tony-"

"You can't leave your bed. We bring Halloween up here to you. There's a party tonight, by the way, I'm going to see if Bruce can get you downstairs for it."

"I'm a physicist, Tony, not a medical doctor. I can't-"

Tony shushed Bruce as he appeared, handing him a hat with antlers on it. Bruce surveyed the hat and looked over to Tasha and Clint, quirking an eyebrow with the unspoken question of  _what the hell is Stark doing this time?_  Clint just shook his head with an apologetic shrug, trying to hide his grin. For all his antics, Tony had actually had a fairly decent idea. Bruce frowned, and put the hat on with a shrug. He was pretty sure Pepper had forbidden Tony from being up here while Natasha was healing, but Pepper was at a business meeting. And, he thought rather dubiously, what Pepper didn't know about wouldn't anger her.

Tony took his pile of movies to the television, calling for JARVIS to "get Steve up here, pronto." Clint took a spot beside Natasha on the bed, settling in and stealing one of her many pillows. They both looked up as Tony swore at the TV, whacking it with the back of one hand. The room filled with laughter as the man then clutched at his knuckles, giving the television a mean glare. The glare turned to the two spies and the physicist, who had taken a seat on the floor and was still laughing even after the others had stopped.

Muttering a couple of choice words, Tony crawled over and flopped down beside Bruce, handing him the remote. As Steve arrived, Nightmare Before Christmas began to play on the screen.

"Captain! Pull up a chair, we're having a Tim Burton marathon, well not really just Tim Burton, but mostly it's Burton and also that other guy who wrote the books about-"

Bruce shut Tony up by clapping a hand over his mouth, holding up a couple of the movies. Steve stared at their strange hats and the inventor's made-up face. Clint threw his at Steve's face and told him to sit down and shut up, rolling his eyes and pulling Natasha close. With a shrug, he sat beside Tony and they remained quiet for quite a while, watching the movies in relative silence.

Steve was quick to regret his decision of sitting beside Tony. For one thing, he fell asleep partway through the second movie - something called Sleepy Hollow - and his head dropped onto Steve's shoulder, leaving a smear of black and white facepaint. Around the third movie, a weird one about people with buttons for eyes, Clint and the now-conscious Tony began a popcorn fight which rose to physical violence as they lunged at each other, the bowl being knocked aside and showering him in popcorn in the process. Steve suffered in silence, allowing Tasha to photograph him with the bowl on his head. He was glad to see a smile back on her face.

The movies lay forgotten as Bruce separated the men. Clint had gotten Tony in a headlock and was being pushed by the inventor's hands, his feet rather painfully being kicked at. They were all glad to see Natasha actually laughing properly, looking better than she had in days, so Bruce allowed the fight to continue for another couple of minutes before separating them once more. Tony flounced off to the corner and sat down with his arms folded, but even the makeup couldn't hide the smile on his face. Tasha smiled and asked him, her tone matching the mischievous grin on her face, if he thought he could paint Steve's face as well as his own.

A moment of silence passed before Bruce and Clint were pinning a struggling Steve down. Tony produced a paintbrush and approached with a wicked grin, enjoying this far too much.

Steve's rather loud protests were ignored, outside of Tony barking at him to "keep still, Rogers, this is hard enough to do without you trying to run away!"

"I can't exactly run away with Clint sitting on my feet."

Clint grinned, waving up at Natasha as she started to snap pictures on his iPhone. She flinched for just a half second, one hand reaching up to touch her sore ribs, but it wasn't enough to stop her from laughing. When Pepper walked in five minutes later, this was how she found them; her boyfriend straddling Steve and painting his face, with Bruce holding Steve's arms tightly above his head, and the archer sprawled across Steve's legs. She froze in the doorway, staring at them with an incredulous look on her face. Bruce looked up guiltily as Clint struggled to sit up, laughing too hard to do so.

"Pepper, I swear, this isn't what it looks like...what does it look like?"

She ignored Tony's question, crossing her arms. "Everybody out. Natasha is supposed to be resting, not laughing at you idiots!"

"But-"

"Out!"

The four men filed out past her, trying to look solemn. Tony opened his mouth to ask if he could stop and get his DVDs, but promptly closed it at the look on her face. Pepper glared at their retreating backs before turning back to Natasha with a grin.

"That got rid of them. Want to watch the Princess Diaries or rest for a while?"

She chose the Princess Diaries, but within minutes Natasha was asleep, a tired smile still on her face.


	11. Thankful

Things were perfect. Absolutely perfect. There were six places neatly set at the table with the fine china and the good silver dinnerware. The napkins had been folded into neat, pretty little origami-style shapes. There was a bottle of red wine - she wasn't sure which, it had just been the first grabbed from the cellar, but it looked expensive - sitting in the middle of the table. It really did look picture perfect.

The smell of roasting turkey wafted from the kitchen into the dining room. Pepper kept rushing back and forth between the two rooms, grabbing platters and bowls and an assortment of foods to be piled on the table. By the time she was done it would be a feast. Tony had offered to get a cook, but really, how hard could Thanksgiving dinner be? Pretty hard, as it turned out.

Natasha sat silently in the kitchen, one hand tugging absently at the bandage that remained around her head. Though she'd recovered considerably - she was now allowed downstairs, and to walk around on her own - her skull wasn't quite done healing and so, the bandage stayed. The spy watched Pepper cook with a feigned interest. Though watching someone cook was infinitely better than watching a wall all day.

She reached into the fridge to grab at something before freezing in place. Tasha covered her mouth with one hand to hide her smile, waiting for the woman to turn around with an exclaimed question. She was disappointed to see her straighten instead, square her shoulders and return to the pots on the stove. It had been hard for Natasha to get that gun in the vegetable crisper, damn it, and she'd been working on that 'revenge is a dish best served cold' joke all day. Anything for entertainment.

Pepper glanced up to the clock. It was nearing midday, meaning the others would be back within the hour. Quickly stirring a pot of sauce that was sitting on the stove, she dropped the spoon when her hand touched the side of the pain. Sucking on the burned finger, she reached over to switch off the television before freezing and staring at the screen.

Of course Tony couldn't do subtle. He couldn't go to the Parade without someone seeing him and going mad because Stark, Iron Man, superhero Avenger. It didn't help there was an Iron Man balloon this year. He had suited up and was flying rings around the balloon. The crowd was cheering loudly.

She was going to kill him when they got home.

"Jarvis," She called, tossing a towel towards one of the bubbling pans on the stove. "Did I not specifically ask that the suits stay locked up today?"

 _I'm afraid you forgot to set the protocols forbidding Mr Stark from overriding your request, Ms Potts_ , was the AI's prompt reply. The woman sighed again and ran her hand under cold water.

"Well you'd think you'd have the sense to set them yourself, Jarvis, thanks."

_I am an Artificial Intelligence created by Mr Stark. I am unable to take initiative in that way._

Pepper laughed and went back to cooking. Everything was almost ready, and it was nearing twelve-thirty. They'd be home soon.

As if on cue, the four men filed into the kitchen. Tony had his arms around both Bruce and Steve, having to stand on his toes to reach the latter's shoulders. The suit had come off and it's owner was laughing loudly, talking rapidly, exclaiming about the sheer awesomeness of the morning. Bruce was smiling shyly and Steve was laughing, something they were all unused to seeing. Clint trailed in behind them, his gaze flicking to the smoking oven. "Is that the turkey?"

"Son of a-" Pepper waved the towel back and forth to clear the smoke away, ignoring the laughter behind her. Tony was already pouring himself a glass of wine despite it still being early afternoon. She pushed him away when he reached over to steal some of the food, telling him sharply to go sit down. For once the man was obedient, taking a seat at the well made table. Clint and Natasha were seated opposite him, with Bruce at his right side and Steve down the end of the table. Predictably the good Captain offered to help with the food but was waved off by Pepper and told to stay where he was.

Tony reached for a nearby spoon to begin piling food on his plate only to have his hand slapped away from Bruce, who gave him a pointed look. With a childish pout the man folded his arms and waited somewhat impatiently, making no effort to join in on the polite conversation around him, instead taking increasingly large drinks from his glass.

Once the turkey had been placed on the table and Pepper had joined them, everyone fell quiet, not quite sure what to say. The sullen Tony sat up straight and placed his glass on the table. The others looked between each other somewhat nervously; he'd grown increasingly erratic since the fight that had ended in Tasha getting hurt. None of them were really sure what he was going to do or say next.

"So," he cleared his throat. "What are we all thankful for?"

When no one responded, he rolled his eyes, grabbed his drink and gave them all a disdainful look. "Well, I guess I'll start," he began, staring down his drink. "I'm thankful for you all."

Refusing to meet their eyes, somewhat embarrassed over the rare display of care towards the others, Tony took another sip and swallowed quickly. "I mean it," he added. "I'm thankful to have Pepper, and..."

Closing his mouth sharply, the man reached for the food and started to shove it on his plate. Pepper and Steve shared a smile while the others laughed awkwardly. Steve looked up and said, "I have to say, I agree. I'm most thankful to have the support of the team especially over the past couple of months."

"Hear, hear," Bruce muttered, unwilling to say anything else.

"I'm thankful to still have my brain inside my skull," Natasha shrugged. They all laughed, except Tony, who chewed slowly and kept his eyes to the ground before taking another drink, muttering something like he was thankful for that, too. Bruce was giving him a steady look out of the corner of his eye which he ignored, likewise ignoring the soft question asked of if he was okay.

"I'm thankful for this food I made that you all seem to not be enjoying." Pepper smirked at them. Everyone immediately began to eat, nodding and being overly enthusiastic when they told her how good it was, because no wrath was so great as the wrath of Pepper Potts.

As they ate, the conversation slowly started up again until they were all laughing and joking. Pepper finally got around to asking why there was what appeared to be a police-issue glock in her fridge and Tasha's revenge joke made Clint laugh so hard he had wine coming out of his nose. Outside, the sun had already began to set, and the warm atmosphere promised a happy night they weren't likely to forget.


	12. The Night They Forgot

Upon downing another shot of vodka, Agent Natasha Romanoff placed her glass down on the table and gave Tony a serious look. He returned her stare, an expensive bottle of scotch gripped tight in one hand. They were judging each other with such tension that Clint swaggered over and flopped down into a chair, staring into his bottle and slurring, "Should I get the two of you a condom?"

"That won't be necessary," Tony shot back, only to receive a kick to a more sensitive area of his anatomy by Natasha's dainty feet. As he dropped to the ground with a howl of pain, the two assassins began laughing so hard they ended up joining him on the floor. The two shared a goofy smile as Tony whimpered behind them.

Bruce was watching the three of them, having appointed himself the unofficial designated driver of the night, despite nobody intending to leave the tower. He pulled the still-whining man off the ground where the drunken man promptly rested his head on his friend's knees. Petting Tony's dark hair like one would a cat and looking as though he thoroughly despised every inch of his life, Bruce sighed at the spies still laughing on the floor. "Natasha, do you  _really_  think you should be drinking with a head injury that hasn't completely healed?"

"Bite me," was her mumbled reply as she crawled back to her bottle of vodka. It was real vodka, the expensive kind, shipped over from Russia because their dear rich friend would let none of them touch what he called that cheap, nasty shit. The man groaned as Tony wrapped his arms around his lower legs and grinned up at him.

"Bruce, I love you."

"Yes, Tony." Bruce sighed. This was the third time he'd been told this that night.

"Don't you love me?" He whined, tugging at Bruce's shirt like an impertinent child. Bruce pushed his hand away with as little force as he could.

"Yes, Tony. Of course I love you."

"You're my best friend, Brucie. Never leave." Tony climbed up onto the chair beside Bruce, burying his head into the man's neck. Bruce closed his eyes and grumbled quietly to himself. Tony was in a constant state of drunkenness, but when he really went on a bender, he got clingy. Usually it was Pepper on the receiving end of this clinginess, but she had wisely opted to go to bed early. When Tony spoke again, he was stumbling over his words heavily, but his friend managed to decipher most of it. "I mean it. You're my science buddy. Who else am I supposed to talk to about the theory behind quantum physics and the Higgs particle?"

"I'm not planning to, Tony."

He excused himself, leaving the drunken man on his chair and the two on the floor still laughing. Tony sat up straight, glaring at Natasha and her vodka once more. "Tasha. Hey Tasha. I dare you to put some of that in Bruce's drink." He held out Bruce's half-empty glass temptingly, and the spy glared at him for a few moments before grinning. Making her way over to him she tipped as much into the glass as she could.

When he returned, he threw back his glass and downed a good few mouthfuls before he realised there was something wrong with it. Coughing and spluttering, he set it down and gave the three a reproachful look. "Are you trying to poison me?"

"Lighten up, it's just a little vodka." It was obvious over the next few minutes the three shots worth of alcohol was beginning to have an effect on the man. He was relaxing, beginning to get that loose, buzzed look. When Clint used the side of the table to pull himself upright, exclaiming that he had 'the best idea ever', Bruce didn't immediately shoot it down. He listened intently.

"Let's go carolling," Clint laughed, leaning against his hand. The others stared at him in confusion until Tony's face cleared.

"That. Is the best idea. I have ever heard." He paused unnecessarily between every couple of words, standing somewhat unsteadily and helping Natasha off the floor. His vendetta over his injured balls was forgotten in light of this amazing idea. Bruce followed somewhat unwillingly, knowing he couldn't leave them all alone outside in Manhattan while they were in this state.

After a while of wandering through the streets, unaffected by the chill in the air despite being underdressed, they found a house Tony deemed acceptable. He leaned forward and pressed against the bell with as much enthusiasm as he could. When no one answered, he pressed it again and again, until a light flickered on and a frazzled-looking woman pulled open the door. She went to snap at them but upon seeing who it was she stilled and gave them a puzzled look. "Are you Tony Stark?"

"I don't know," Tony said indistinctly, faking a look of horror as he turned to his friends. "Guys, guys. Am I Tony Stark?"

"You're too short to be Tony Stark," Clint replied haughtily with a wink to the woman in the doorway. Tony glared at him before catching his reflection in a nearby window. He stumbled backwards, gaping at his appearance.

"Oh my god! I'm Tony Stark!"

As the three fell about themselves in laughter, Bruce slipped the woman a twenty and asked her to humour them for a few minutes. Accepting the money with a shrug, she listened patiently through an painfully off-key rendition of Silent Night. This went on for about six more houses until all he had left in his wallet was a couple of tens and a five. These too were parted with and by the end of the night, he was somewhat sheepishly handing over a handful of dimes, the only money he had left.

More than one house recorded the drunken singing on their phones. Some met the four avengers with delight; others told them in some very rude language to leave. The house that got the coins was one of those.

Approaching 2AM Bruce started to drag the three back to Stark Tower, ignoring their protests. As much as he hated to admit it he had enjoyed himself in their little escapade. He had a throbbing headache caused by hearing all the greatest Christmas carols being butchered, there was vomit on his shoes, and he was short over a hundred dollars, but Tony had an arm thrown around his shoulders, Clint was clinging onto him, and the long legged spy that was Natasha was strolling ahead of them barefoot with heels in hand. It was just enough to convince him it had been the best Thanksgiving night of his life.

Once they were back upstairs Natasha fell onto the couch, pushing Clint off when he tried to join her. The archer didn't even complain, just lay face down on the carpet and mumbled something about her being mean. When he was certain there was no way they could die of alcohol poisoning or somehow suffocate during the night, Bruce took Tony back up to his room and allowed him to fall onto the bed.

Plucking the wallet from the back pocket of the man's jeans, Bruce counted out the money he figured he was owed for the night before leaving it on the bedside table. As he went to leave, he was stopped by a slurred call of his name.

"What's up?" He turned back to the bed, where the semiconscious Tony had rolled over and was grinning at him.

"You're my best friend, Bruce."

He laughed. "I know, Tony. You told me."

"I love you!"

Bruce shook his head and rolled his eyes as he tucked the money into his pocket. "You told me that too. Get some sleep, okay?"

"I'm sorry we made you lose all your money," he mumbled into the pillow.

"Ah, don't worry about it, buddy." Bruce laughed again and shook his head, walking out and closing the door behind him. It really had been the best Thanksgiving of his life and that was a little sad. He didn't mind that, though. It was good to be with family on Thanksgiving instead of all alone, and right now he had the best family he could ever hope to have.


	13. Tony Antagonises Fury

He didn't really wake up. It was more like he could feel layers of sleep peeling away until he lay fully conscious with both eyes tightly shut, in the darkness, contemplating the great mysteries of life.

Mystery number one: why did his mouth taste like he'd spent the night licking the interior of a dumpster?

Finally gathering the courage to prise his eyes open, Clint stared at the roof for a good several minutes as this contemplation continued. He took in a mental scan over his body. Everything seemed to be in working order, outside of his brain, which was pounding furiously against the interior of his skull like it had some kind of personal argument against him. Upon deciding he wouldn't die if he decided to move, he began to slowly sit up.

The singular movement was enough to send his surroundings (the darkened kitchen, as he was quick to work out) spinning. With a groan he steadied himself against the leg of a nearby chair, resting his head against it until he was capable of moving again.

When he looked up, he was unsurprised to find Tony sitting at the kitchen bench with a newspaper held up to his face, as though he for once was actually taking an interest in something outside of the world of Tony Stark. His eyes flickered around the room; he assumed it was early morning, but the lights were off and the blinds tightly shut, giving the illusion it was still dark out. Clearing his throat, Tony lowered the newspaper and tossed it aside, staring intently at Clint - or at least Clint thought that was what he was doing. His eyes were covered by a dark pair of sunglasses.

"Can you believe," the man broke the silence with a gesture to the newspaper, "they had the balls to suggest I was flying my suit drunk at the parade?"

Apparently Tony didn't take an interest in anything outside the world of Tony Stark.

Running his tongue over his teeth in an effort to clear the taste from his mouth, he ran a hand over his eyes and stared up at the other man curiously. "What time is it?"

"It is six forty-five AM, Saturday morning."

He groaned again and set his head drop into the crook of his arm, which was still resting against the chair. "Did we sleep through Black Friday?"

"Well, you did. I expect better of you Legolas. You seemed like the kind of man that can hold his liquor."

He doubted the man had woken up much longer before he did, if the glasses were anything to go by, but let it slide. He got up and unsteadily made his way to the bench, his sore muscles cramping in protest. Tony handed him a coffee, which he accepted gratefully, taking a swig of it to get rid of the horrible dumpster taste. It helped, but only marginally. "Have I been sleeping on the kitchen floor since Thursday night?"

"No, you were in the living room. I dragged you in here once I woke up."

Clint snorted softly and took another drink from the mug of coffee. As he did so, Steve walked in, looking obscenely cheerful for the hour of the morning. With a jaunty hello, the supersoldier made his way over to the curtains and went to pull one open before being pounced on by Tony.

"No. Bad Steve. We are vampires now."

Steve dropped the curtain in surprise and stepped away, looking over at Clint with some alarm. "I don't understand. Is this a Twilight thing?"

While Tony looked ecstatic that Steve had just mentioned Twilight, even if it was in relation to vampires (he insisted it was actually about fairies and that the series' existence was an insult to the vampire name), he shook his head. "No. It's just, we're quite hungover, and light-"

"I'm quite hungover," The archer corrected. "I'm pretty sure he's still drunk."

Tony pulled a face and shrugged, unwilling to admit that was probably true. He returned to his seat, Steve agreeing to leave the room in darkness when he saw how Clint flinched once the curtain was pulled back. They sat in silence, neither of the men seeing any point in enquiring how Black Friday had been.

It wasn't long until they were joined by Bruce. They all gave him the awkward early-morning nod of greeting; Bruce returned it, chuckling quietly as he made his coffee. "Well," he remarked, turning around, "It's good to see the two of you awake."

This was met with vague grunts, aside from Steve, who smiled at him. The archer's head was now resting on the cool bench; the nausea obviously had yet to fade. Stark was glaring at the newspaper through his dark sunglasses, making a halfhearted protest when Bruce abruptly pulled it from his hands and unfolded it with the intention of actually reading it, as opposed to glaring at it and muttering under his breath about 'that Jameson bastard' printing lies.

"I should probably warn you," Bruce said to the two men cheerfully, "Expect a call from Fury."

Both froze and looked between each other with mirrored expressions of panic as Steve began to laugh. Struggling to smother his laughter, he turned to walk away, shoulders still shaking as he retreated from the room. As he left, Natasha walked in past him, turning her head to give a puzzled look at the man's laughter. She shrugged and approached the coffeemaker. Like Tony, her eyes were covered by a pair of dark glasses, and in one hand she clutched a packet of prescription painkillers. Gulping a few down with a mouthful of coffee, she ignored the concerned looks she was receiving; she was recovering from a skull fracture, and her head hurt. Now that she was sober she could see how drinking had been an absolutely horrible idea, but wasn't that the life story of every drunk? And she was no drunk. Not to Tony levels, anyway.

_Agents Romanoff and Barton, and Mister Stark, a video call is coming through for you from SHIELD. Shall I-_

"Yeah, put it through, Jarvis." Tony nodded as Fury's face dominated a wall to his left. He faced it, crossing his arms and awaiting his lecture for whatever he'd supposedly done while drunk, ready to deny everything with the ever-reliable claim of "you have no evidence of that happening, sir."

"Mister Stark. Agent Romanoff. Agent Barton. Good morning." Fury's voice was gruff and seemingly more aggressive than usual. His glare, twice as large as it would have been in person, was twice as intimidating. "Do you know what this is about?"

The three looked between each other. The two agents had stood to attention the moment Fury appeared, but he lounged back on his chair, giving his superior a nonchalant shrug. Fury's eye narrowed and his frown deepened as he watched the man.

"This is about your behaviour on the night of Thanksgiving."

Tony snorted, flicking up his sunglasses and taking a sip from the coffee Clint had abandoned. "With all due respect, sir," a favourite phrase of his, "I don't entirely remember the night of Thanksgiving."

"And the two of you?" This was directed to the assassins, who looked between each other and back to the floor shamefully. Their silence was enough to admit they didn't remember Thursday night either. Fury visibly sighed, closing his eye briefly as he silently prayed for patience. "Natasha, did you really think drinking with a head injury was a good idea?"

"A lapse in judgement, sir. It won't happen again." Natasha's voice was quiet, full of guilt, but he couldn't tell if she actually felt any remorse at getting screaming drunk and wandering through New York, singing carols at the top of her lungs. It wasn't the behaviour he wanted - or needed - from a field agent; but with her, and likewise with Agent Barton, he could let it slide. Just once.

"Stark," he began, but the man held up two hands defensively.

"You can't get angry at me for something I don't remember - but I'm guessing if you're angry, it was awesome."

Bruce chose this moment to cut in, fearing that his friend was going to say something incredibly stupid and get them all in trouble. "Sir, I am sure-"

"Shut it, Banner." Fury glared down from the projection, as though he placed quite a bit of blame on the physicist. "I've had the videos removed from youtube, which I can assure you was no easy task. I hope you're all aware this is your second strike and any misdemeanours after this  _will result in serious consequences._ "

"Wait," Tony piped up, "There's video? Can I watch it?"

Fury gave the man a stony glare. "No."

His words went unheeded as the man seized his laptop and began to type rapidly. Bruce covered his mouth with one hand as he struggled not to laugh, biting his lower lip and pulling a face in an effort to maintain some kind of composure. "Sir, if you don't give him permission to watch it, he's just going to figure out how to do it himself."

The director turned his glare onto Bruce and went to say something before they were both silenced by Tony calling for JARVIS to "access the backdoor into the SHIELD Avenger Initiative files, code fourteen-twelve". Bruce coughed to cover his laughter again as the assassins crept from the room with identical grins on their faces. "Sir, it appears Tony has installed a hole in your systems. Is there anything you don't really want seen?"

Their boss muttered something about Stark's fucking nerve before the transmission ended and Bruce burst out laughing, clutching at his stomach as he wiped tears from his eyes. The inventor looked up from his laptop with a small grin, glad to finally see his friend so happy. He chuckled quietly and with another flurry of typing had pulled up the video.

"Want to watch?" He asked. Bruce shook his head, still smiling.

"It's okay. I can remember it a bit better than you can. Just try not to antagonise Fury again, okay? He pays us."

Tony snorted. He earned more money in ten minutes than SHIELD gave any of the Avengers in a week but he was willing to concede Bruce had a point. "That might be the case, but if he ever fired any of you, you would all still be welcome here. You should know that."

Bruce paused in the doorway with a puzzled smile crossing his face. He looked back to see Tony staring intently at his screen, chuckling every couple of seconds. He shrugged, shook his head and walked away.


	14. Any Plans for the Holidays?

"I can't believe it's December already," Natasha commented as she scooped up another armful of yellowing newspapers and trashy magazines to dump in the garbage. Clint gave her a noncommittal grunt in reply as he handed over a stack of papers. She pulled them to her chest, shaking out another bag to put them in. They were spring cleaning, despite it still being winter. She had grown sick of the mess that had somehow accumulated in her rooms since she had been injured.

There was a knock at the door before it opened and Pepper's head appeared. Her reddish hair had come loose from its tight ponytail, uneven strands straggling into her eyes. She looked somewhat frazzled, as if she was finally reaching the end of her rope. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Clint answered, just as Natasha gestured and said "Of course."

With a relieved sigh she bustled inside, a clipboard resting in the crook of her arm, pen in hand. She flopped down onto Natasha's grey couch, dumping the clipboard beside her with a groan. The assassins shared a grin, and Clint couldn't help but ask, "Having Tony issues?"

"What?" Pepper opened her eyes. "Oh, no. Tony's been fine. Jarvis and Steve have been keeping him entertained while I've been trying to organise this..." she waved her hand to the clipboard, "...business thing."

Tasha nodded understandingly, throwing another handful of newspaper into the bag. "How have the meetings been going?"

"Oh, fine, fine," The woman nodded, as though she were trying reassure herself more than anything. The spy patted her shoulder gently, trying to offer some form of comfort. Pepper sighed and pulled the clipboard back towards her, placing pen to paper. "I've been meaning to ask, what are the two of your doing for Christmas? Family?"

A look passed between the two before Natasha shook her head, red curls bouncing. She had gotten her hair cut to even it out, so it now rested just at her chin, lighter than ever and coiled up tightly. "We figured we'd just stay here for Christmas. Really the only family each other has."

A note was made down on the clipboard as Clint nodded in agreement. Pepper got up again, straightening her skirt and stretching. "Have either of you seen Bruce? He's not with Tony."

"Not for the past couple of days, no."

Pepper shrugged and thanked them, pulled the clipboard to her chest and left in an orderly fashion. She made her way upstairs, intent on finding the physicist, because this was the third time in as many months he had vanished for a few days before appearing again as though it was all fine. She knew he was naturally introverted and needed some time away from everything sometimes, but he didn't leave the tower in the few days nobody saw him - he just holed himself up in his room. And time off was one thing, but there was something about  _this_  that concerned her, so she found herself knocking at his door.

"Bruce? It's Pepper."

There was no reply, but she honestly wasn't expecting one. She tried again.

"Bruce, come on."

Heaving a sigh, she turned and went to walk away when behind her she heard the click of the lock opening. Turning back to face him, she tilted her head and brushed away a strand covering her eyes. Bruce looked...unwell, to put it mildly. There were dark circles under his heavy eyes with his mouth turned down at the corners, his face seeming much more aged than usual. His shoulders seemed to droop and the light shirt he was wearing hung off his body; she hadn't realised how much weight he'd lost in the months since the Chitauri. He took a deep breath and smiled at her. It did quite a bit to help his exhausted appearance, but she couldn't shake the feeling something wasn't right.

"Yeah, Pep?" He asked. He raised an eyebrow when he realised she was staring.

"Are you okay?" She couldn't help but ask. He forced out a laugh and nodded.

"It's just the flu. I'm fine." His gaze dropped to the floor and he shrugged, as if he were saying that it was nothing, he was okay, don't worry about it in the simple gesture. Doubtful, she shrugged and dropped her gaze to the clipboard.

"I just...wanted to know if you had any plans for Christmas? Family or anything?"

"Well, there's my cousin Jenny...Jennifer, but I don't think she'll want me around. I'll just...stay here, if that's okay with you and Tony?"

Pepper wasn't aware she was staring again. She nodded slowly and scribbled something down before looking back up and scanning him. "Are you sure you're okay? Is there anything I can get you?"

He muttered something endearingly dark and sarcastic under his breath and was thankful when she didn't hear him. Implications of one's own death, even when said jokingly, would often lead to giving people the wrong impression. The physicist smiled again and shook his head. "No, Pepper," he tried to sound reassuring, "I'm fine."

"If you're sure." She left him to retreat back into the safety of his room and decided to find Tony with the intent of having a word over the physicist's health. By the time she'd made it down to the labs, however, she was quickly distracted by the squabbling supersoldier and inventor.

The woman coughed into her hand to gain their attention. The argument stopped and Tony gave her a dirty look, as though to say "why did you stop me, things were just getting good." She gave him a glare before turning to Steve and smiling. "Steve, I was just wondering, any plans for Christmas?"

"No, not really. Everyone I know is already dead," Steve didn't relent in his glare towards Tony's smug face. Pepper ignored his sharp tone, shrugged and made a note on the clipboard, making her way back up to the kitchen. It had been a long morning between business and organising things for the holidays, and she just wanted to sit down for ten minutes and have a coffee.

Inside she found Natasha and Clint, apparently having abandoned their mission to clean the apartment. Apparently today everybody was in an argumentative mood, because they too were fighting. Nothing serious, she noted, just your average argument over what to watch on the television. After several minutes of hearing "I'm not watching that stupid fucking cop show, Barton," and "Well excuse me for having a decent taste in television, Romanoff," she walked over, snatched the remote from the two, and turned it onto the news, settling the argument once and for all.

_...supposedly accounting for the large amount of narcotics in the area. In related news, a freak electrical storm occurred in Westchester today, hindering several ongoing investigations in the area. Local inhabitants report both high winds and large amounts of lightning with power outages in the area. Are these the beginnings of a hurricane or something more sinister? Find out more at six._

Natasha frowned at the screen before turning to Clint, an eyebrow quirked. "You don't think...?"

"Nah," He said, watching as Pepper seemed to fall asleep on the couch, waiting for her to be unconscious before snagging the remote. "Don't you think Fury would tell us if he was stopping by?"

"What if Fury didn't know?"

As she spoke, a peal of thunder could be heard outside, despite there being no storms forecast for the weather that morning. The two shared disbelieving looks as another rumble sounded before Tasha stood and walked over to the windows, her fingers tracing the edge of the curtains hesitantly. From behind the curtain, several knocks sounded. She visibly jumped, glancing back to Clint. He shrugged and gestured for her to open it. With a dramatic tug, the material was pulled back.

And on the other side of the glass, floating mid-air with Mjolnir in hand and a grin on his face, was Thor Odinson.


	15. Suddenly Thor

Natasha stared blankly through the glass as Thor waved at the two. It was quite a sight to behold; behind him lightning flashed through the darkening clouds, with the wind tossing his blonde hair about wildly. The archer was laughing hysterically behind her; she snapped at him to shut up before he woke Pepper.

"Jarvis," she eventually recovered enough from her shock to ask as she searched over the thick glass, "Do these windows open?"

_They do not, Agent Romanoff._

"Wonderful," the woman muttered. She pointed to Thor, who grinned at her, and then down to the ground. The Asgardian nodded enthusiastically before dropping out of sight. Grabbing Clint by the arm and tugging him along behind her, the spy took the elevator down into the lobby of Stark tower. Once down there they found a delighted Asgardian God of Thunder surveying the space, and several of Stark's workers looking very, very concerned. Tasha was quick to seize Thor and pull him away. With an amused god on one arm and a disgruntled archer on the other, she dragged them over to the elevators, stubbornly ignoring the twinges of pain coming from her just-healed shoulder.

"Season's greetings my dear friends!" Thor's voice boomed over them. "Is this not the Midgardian season for merriment and wonder? I have brought with me Asgardian mead, I believe you will all enjoy it thoroughly!"

"Season's greetings, Thor." Clint grinned, not noticing as she winced before returning the smile.

Thor, though not the most observant of people, was not stupid. "Natasha! You are in pain."

She looked momentarily surprised before nodding slowly. "Uh, yeah...It's fine, though." She said uncertainly. "I was...bested in combat?"

"That is a shame. You are a great fighter," Thor commented before they lapsed into silence. The archer was giving his partner one of those  _looks;_ the kind where he was silently telling her she was an idiot and why hadn't she told him it still hurt and  _honestly Tasha don't you trust me?_  His look and silent question went unanswered by her and the silence persisted. When the elevator doors opened, they were in the main living area, where the current CEO of Stark Industries was still snoring away on a couch. Tasha motioned for Thor to take a seat and get comfortable as he and Clint struck up conversation over the current state of Asgard. The redhead moved away from the two, looking vaguely up towards the ceiling and asking Jarvis to get Tony and Steve to come from the labs.

The two men arrived in a stony silence, occasionally shooting each other foul looks from across the room when they stood as far apart as possible. Tony was elated to see Thor, clapping him on the back and grinning ecstatically. Thor didn't quite share the man's enthusiasm, but was pleased to see him nonetheless.

"Captain!" Thor held out a hand to Steve, who shook it with a small smile. The Asgardian always put him in better spirits. As the two men and Clint continued their conversation, Tony wandered over to the couch where Pepper still slept, apparently undisturbed by the entrance of the Avengers.

He prodded her awake gently. "Pepper?"

"Mm...Tony? What is it?" She sat up sleepily, pulling her phone out to check the time. Tony helped her up, leaving her cold coffee on the table where it sat. "Did I really sleep for an hour?"

"Come on." Tony didn't answer her question, instead pulling her from the room quietly as Thor entertained everyone with a tale of the Lady Sif and the Warriors Three. "It's no good sleeping there, it's uncomfortable as hell. Remind me to invest in some less painful furniture."

"No, Tony, I've got to-"

He shushed her as he gently pushed her into the elevator. "You're exhausted, Pep. Go upstairs and have a proper sleep. It's no good being the acting CEO of Stark Industries if you're going to fall asleep in the middle of every business meeting."

Somewhat unwillingly, the woman took his advice. With a quick peck to her cheek before the doors closed, Tony stepped backwards and half-turned back towards the group before changing his mind. "Jarvis, where's Bruce?"

_Dr Banner is currently in his quarters, sir._

"Is there a reason he's not coming downstairs?"

_He has stated he wishes to be left alone._

Tony huffed quietly before shrugging and returning to his friends, who were in uproarious laughter. Clint was supporting Natasha as she struggled to breathe, wiping a tear from her eye, though he himself was having some difficulty in staying upright. Steve's earlier bad mood seemed to be all but gone and he offered a smile to Tony. The man returned it, all traces of their previous fight forgotten. "What did I miss?"

"Thor was just...telling us...oh, god, I'm going to die I'm laughing so hard," Clint struggled briefly before he managed to get a handle on his amusement. "Oh, Thor, go ahead and tell it again."

The god, who had deposited Mjolnir on a nearby bench, shrugged and grinned. "I do not know if it will be as humorous the second time, Barton."

"Just tell in anyway," Tasha said with a grin.

Thor cleared his throat and, once more, regaled them with the story. By the end of it Tony was laughing twice as hard as anyone else; he elbowed Steve in the side until the man cracked a smile, having not found as funny as before. Soon they were lounging about in various spaces - the floor, the couch, Clint even perched himself on the top of the table like some kind of predatory bird - and swapping stories like teenage girls at a slumber party, laughing all the while. Eventually though Tony decided it was time to get serious, or at least as serious as he ever got.

"So, Thor," he asked, "What brings you to down to Earth?"

"It is the Midgardian season of cheer, is it not? The time one spends with their family and friends. I wished to spend it with my friends." Thor gave him a steady smile and gestured in the direction of Mjolnir. It seemed odd, to him at least, the god would want to spend the 'season of cheer' with his friends as opposed to family. But once he thought about it he realised that Asgard must not have been entirely pleasant after the whole brother-being-a-mass-murdering-war-criminal thing. Shaking his head, his gaze followed Thor's. Now that he looked, Tony could see the hammer was not alone on the table. "I brought with me some of the mead I told you of. It is the finest in all the realms."

"That's debatable." He hoped Thor would rise up to the unspoken challenge in the words.

"Do you doubt me, Tony Stark?"

"Well," Tony shrugged, "There's only one way to-"

"Absolutely not," Bruce interrupted from the doorway. Arms folded, he gave Tony a sharp look before he smiled at the god. "Hello, Thor. It's good to see you."

Tony muttered that the physicist ruined all his fun before receiving a sharp poke to his ribs from said physicist. Bruce turned away from the inventor and took Thor's hand in his, clapping the other up to the man's shoulder. He dropped down beside Tony and settled in, ignoring the concerned look he was receiving off both assassins. They knew he had been in his room for days, and while he was definitely improved from when Pepper had seen him earlier, he still appeared slightly sickly. It wasn't even that he appeared unwell - there was just a general vibe the man gave that they felt was off from the shy, self-assured Dr Banner they all knew and loved. "So," he asked, looking over the group. "What did I miss?"

Natasha leaned forward, resting her head on her hands and grinning. "Go on, Thor. Tell it again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the last chapter before this fic got some real plot going - the five chapters that constitute that plot are over on fanfiction.net, but it'll be a while before I post them, because the chapters that follow them are nowhere close enough to finished, and I don't want to leave anyone consistently reading this hanging the way I did with my followers over there. So, thank you for reading this far, I hope you've enjoyed it, and I hope you enjoy what will (eventually) follow it. :)


	16. Steve Rogers, Agent of SHIELD

He shouldered the bag tossed to him by the other man, grunting at the sudden weight. A glare was shot in his direction as the assassin hissed at him to keep it down with a nod in the direction of the bed. Looking between the bed and his friend, he nearly dropped the bag with the realisation of what  _that_ meant.

Something in his expression must have given the thought away because Clint cracked a smile and shook his head.

"It's not like that," Clint muttered, throwing a (thankfully sheathed) knife for Steve to catch. He did, barely, fumbling with it for a few moments before adding it to one of the many side pockets this bag contained. The archer strode out, taking it off him and slinging it across his body, reaching over behind a small table for a bow that Steve had never noticed before. He let the bow sit atop the bag as he found what he called his emergency quiver; it was small, relatively compact, and much lighter than the standard quiver, chiefly because it carried half the number of arrows and those it did have were slimmer and lighter, though no less dangerous. Steve took it from him to carry; he had far less baggage and it was only sensible for him to take some of the weight.

With a last check over everything, Clint decided he'd packed his fair share of items, at the very least enough to get him through any foreseeable danger - and anything else that popped up. As he nodded to tell Steve it was time for them to get going there was the familiar click of a handgun being cocked and ready to fire. Both men went still immediately and the archer raised his hands in the air, resting them against his head. "Natasha," he called out, without turning around, "It's just us. It's just me and Steve."

After a few tense seconds there was a second click - she had, likely against her better judgement, unloaded the gun. He turned to give her a reassuring smile and had to stifle a laugh instead; the sight of her sitting upright in bed with a gun still clutched in her grip was just too much. Her red curls were tangled and spiked up in places, with her sleep-filled eyes giving her a dopey look compared to the serious expression on her face. Grasping the sheets and pulling them up to her chest she set the gun down beside her and, after wiping her eyes clear, gave the pair an expectant glare.

"We've been called out on a mission. It's just for a few days."

She was still glaring at him. He shrugged at her apologetically - it wasn't his fault she still hadn't been cleared for active fieldwork. But right now, he had a leader to assassinate, and Steve had a kidnapped something-or-other to rescue. Clint hadn't been paying attention to that part when they'd gotten the briefing an hour ago, at two o'clock. It had been more along the lines of interrupted sleep, barely listening while being given the basic instructions, and then falling asleep while the Captain was told his side. They were being flown out to a jungle in the middle of nowhere in which a complicated and angry conflict had begun. The leader of one side had kidnapped the youngest daughter of the other, and SHIELD had decided to send its four best agents that weren't currently suffering any injuries - Clint Barton, Rachel Leighton, Steve Rogers, and Daisy Johnson - before things got nasty enough to start making the news.

"We'll be back before Christmas," he offered. The glare softened.

"Don't die," she said eventually, before laying back and snuggling into the blankets, the pistol shoved inconspicuously under the pillows on his side of the bed.

"You too," he replied, as he walked out to the hall where Steve had chosen to wait. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable in his new SHIELD bodysuit; as this was a stealth mission, the stars-and-stripes had to go. Instead a junior agent had come by and delivered a dark grey suit with the SHIELD logo on the chest. It had a small collar, short sleeves, and Tony had asked if they were headed to the Hunger Games upon seeing it. Clint could see why. It did bear some resemblance to a training suit from one of the movies, though he personally felt ashamed he'd sat through enough viewings of the damned film with Tony to know that. As they made their way up to the roof he made a silent vow to never watch it again. And if Stark called him Katniss, he'd punch the son of a bitch in the face.

It was too early in the morning for this shit. He hoped there would be coffee on the jet, but he didn't like his chances.

"So, you and Natasha?" Steve interrupted his thoughts with a side glance to the shorter man. It wasn't like he hadn't known. They all knew; it was as obvious as the sky was blue. He just wasn't sure to what end the relationship extended. The spy and the assassin were incredibly close, almost in perfect sync with each other. He supposed they had to be given their career. But he'd just found Nat in the archer's room, and well, they didn't share a room. "I didn't think you two...you know."

"We don't," Clint said in a flat tone, barely looking up as he stored his things under his seat. He gave a vague nod of greeting to the three other agents sitting inside; he knew Leighton and Johnson from around the base but rarely spoke to them. The third was the recruit that had been with them the day Natasha had gotten hurt - he couldn't quiet remember her name. It was something Hispanic. Mendez? Morales, that was it. He gathered from her wide-eyed, adrenaline-filled expression that either this was her first real field mission, or she'd already gotten into the coffee.

Steve looked over the other agents as he packed his things away. One was a long-legged and slender woman with fair skin and caramel coloured hair, whose green eyes pierced into him. She was fiddling with a small set of blades she held in one hand, toying with them, flicking them over her fingers like it was some kind of fantastic game. With a wolfish smile she told him her name was Agent Rachel Leighton, but over comms he could call her Diamondback.

He smiled and nodded in return, his introduction rendered unnecessary when Clint jerked a thumb towards him and said, "That's Steve. Call him Captain."

"I know who he is, nitwit." Rachel Leighton looked pretty pleased at nothing in particular, still playing with the small blades in her hand. Wordlessly she pocketed them and pointed to the agent sitting to her left. "This is Daisy Johnson. Call her Quake."

Quake had a passing resemblance to an actress Steve knew he'd seen but couldn't quite remember the name of, with dark hair that seemed to spike up of its own accord and cool blue eyes that were calmly cataloguing everything in sight. They passed over him and she gave a disinterested shrug of her tiny shoulders; while Leighton was thin and tall, Johnson was almost waiflike compared to the other agents he knew. She looked almost as young as Morales, who was sitting primly in her seat and watching them all with an unnerving focus that reminded him of Tony when he'd gone too many nights without sleep. He twitched an eyebrow in the other man's direction, who cracked a smile and shook his head. With a shrug, he decided there was no point in sitting silently for a five hour flight.

"Morales?" He asked. The girl nearly jumped out of her seat, but quickly composed herself to sitting even straighter than before, something she achieved without somehow snapping her spine.

"Yes, Agent Barton?" It was disconcerting to see her so...ready to go. He briefly wondered what had happened to the snarky rookie that had shot down Stark and, to use her own words, 'had a minor disagreement' with Maria Hill.

Without bothering to keep the humour out of his voice, he asked her, "You do know drug use on the job is against the rules and regulations, right?"

Daisy snorted while Rachel looked between the rookie and her fellow assassin with a smirk. The two knew exactly what the younger agent's problem was; they'd seen it enough times in inexperienced trainees. It was a combination of nerves, lack of sleep, and an abundance of caffeine running through her veins. Most senior agents had running bets on how long it would take the newbies to crack on their first real mission. In that moment, Daisy had twenty on Agent Morales lasting three hours. Rachel was a little more generous; she gave the girl fifteen hours before the inevitable snapping.

One's first snap on the job was sort of an initiation at this point. The ones that didn't break, well, they were the ones SHIELD knew were keepers. The ones that did got dumped back in training for another year, or told to join a less stressful agency. Something quiet like the CIA or the FBI.

"I have never been one for following the rules and regulations, sir. But I am not on any illicit substances." Morales flashed him a nervous smile and at that point Steve realised why the others were laughing quietly behind him and decided to take pity on the girl.

"First field mission?" He asked gently. The other three shut up at being on the receiving end of Captain America's glare. Morales pulled a face and nodded. "You're a little nervous, aren't you?"

"I really don't want to fuck this up." Her face paled upon realising what she'd sworn and she put a hand up to her mouth. "Shit - I mean - um...I don't..."

Steve chuckled. "It's okay. I live with Tony Stark, you remember what he was like. And Clint," he nodded in the man's direction, "Isn't exactly the best when it comes to watching his language."

"Bite me," The archer grinned, his tone almost identical to the one Natasha used. The two women shared doubtful looks as Steve continued to talk to the girl calmly. Diamondback didn't care if he thought he could keep the rookie from losing it; if anything it meant more money for her if he delayed the inevitable for a few hours. Quake, while grateful she wouldn't be going into a mission with a panicked mess, had been counting on the 'panicked mess' side of things coming in before they arrived, so they could go in alone. Ever since SHIELD had decided every top agent mission should have at least one recruit with them - work experience, they claimed - she felt everyone had been getting increasingly sloppy. Morales, bless her, belonged behind a desk. Doing paperwork. For another six months at least, maybe with the occasional recon mission to keep her skills fresh.

"Alright, everyone  _shut it_ ," Daisy spoke up as the jet began its descent into a SHILED-friendly location twenty miles from where they had to be. Once on the ground they would stop, get supplies organised, and break off into two groups. After that it was a simple matter of everyone being in the right place at the right time to get all the information, kill the right people, and rescue the appropriately distressed damsel.

It was going to be a piece of cake.


	17. Piece of Cake

"So we all agree." One slim finger tapped a space on the map. "We all meet at this latitude and longitude at zero five hundred, tomorrow."

"Zero five hundred as in, eighteen hours from now? Or zero five hundred tomorrow as in forty-two hours from now?" Steve asked her to clarify. The tiny agent gave him a look and responded she meant eighteen hours - they had eighteen hours to assassinate, rescue, detain and obtain information. Leighton was on detainment, Johnson on information, Clint on assassination and of course Steve on rescue. As they loaded up their weapons and agreed on covers and protocols for the chance of capture, the tiny Johnson was glaring up at the rookie and ordering her to stay at base.

" _Yes_ , ma'am. Understood." Morales was looking down at Daisy and nodding, trying very hard not to crack a smile at the waiflike woman. For a commanding officer, she thought Daisy Johnson looked more like a cross child for all the yelling she did. Johnson gave her one last sharp look before grabbing Steve to lead him off to their side of the mission. He turned his head to grin at Morales, who saluted him as they disappeared into thick jungle.

Clint checked over his arrows one more time before going to follow Agent Leighton out. Just before leaving, he stopped and turned back to Morales and gave her a sharp look. "Agent, I want you to follow those orders Johnson just gave you."

"I will, sir."

He glanced behind him again. "I  _want_ you to, but if worse comes to worst, you don't  _have_  to. In fact, I'm ordering you right now - if the situation calls for you to go against your orders, do what you think is right."

"Sir," her brown crinkled, wide brown eyes conveying her confusion, "Do you think that something's going to go wrong?"

"Something always does, rookie. I'll see you in eighteen hours. Trust your instincts and keep an ear on your comms, alright?"

The archer took off into the dense mass of trees, finding it easy to follow Leighton through the subtle clues left in the leaves. A broken twig, the tiniest break in dirt, a bent flower. It took him mere moments to catch up to the woman and he fell into step beside her, noting the shift in her weight as she took on a more covert manner of walking. It made him smile, knowing she had left the tiny disturbances so he would find it easier to find her. Rachel was a good friend. Or a good approximation of what most assassins would consider a friend, meaning he trusted she wouldn't turn around and gut him for kicks.

The fingers of her left hand were busy twirling a tiny blade around. It was an action he associated with coping, much in the same way he would check his quiver when he felt even the tiniest twinge of anxiety. There was indeed something soothing about have a working weapon in your hands, and knowing that it could be used at any second. The two agents moved through the undergrowth with little speaking, but after twenty minutes, he glanced to his watch.

"We on radio silence?" He asked, his voice low. She shook her head, ducking under a branch. The archer reached up to his ear. "Captain, everything alright? You're being awful quiet."

"All fine. We're close. You might want to change your direction, target's more towards the left." Steve's voice buzzed from his comms, sounding tense.

"Noted."

Clint didn't bother to ask, just moved several steps to his left, Agent Leighton noticing and following as needed. The jungle was tough to manoeuvre through without leaving sign they'd been there, so after another twelve minutes they gave up, still stepping lightly but avoiding the catlike grace they had relied on. When they were within half a mile the voice buzzed in his ear again. "Radio silence from now, we're approaching the right side. No sight of the girl yet."

Clint linked his fingers together, offering Rachel a boost. She sheathed her diamond-shaped knife and steadied herself on his shoulder, using his hands as a step into the leaves above. The lithe spy crawled over the branches, pawing her way over vines and leaves to get higher. Clint was close behind her, grunting at the effort. His hand slipped and he swore, close to losing his balance before Rachel turned and grabbed his hand with a vice-tight grip.

"Watch yourself, Barton." A smile played on her lips. A familiar twang sounded from nearby.

"You watch  _yours_ elf, Leighton." He tugged her down sharply, just in time to save her from the arrow that whizzed over her head. The woman's eye colour reflected the green above as she looked, her mouth opening with slight surprise.

"How did you...?"

"I heard the string." The archer was beginning to think that the attack was why Steve had sounded so strained. He pulled Rachel along to the next tree, the two of them making their way through the jungle without going to the ground. He could feel the tension rolling off her body in waves and abruptly let go of her hand, pulling his bow free and knocking an arrow without a word. He kept them in a loose grip as they neared the compound in an attempt to be both ready and inconspicuous. High windows came into view, and from behind them, a smug looking bastard. Steve and Daisy were just visible off in the distance.

"Ready?"

He ignored Leighton's question, pulling back the string and taking aim. His aim was true, the sturdy arrow shattering through the glass at burying itself in its mark. He leaned backward, glancing down to see Rachel sprinting forwards with a blade in either hand. Her aim was as good as his as three shocked soldier-types got the pleasure of discovering before something sharp landed in their necks. Foreign voices screeched their outrage, and foreign heads made the mistake of appearing at the shattered window. Four arrows in quick succession made easy work of it.

"This is far too easy," he muttered, his suspicion rising, but he ignored it.

The archer stayed in his perch, using his skills from a distance. It didn't take long to incapacitate everyone who needed to be incapacitated without killing them, and Leighton took care of everyone that needed to be dead. As a knife so expertly thrown by her landed in the eye of a machete-wielding maniac, she turned to grin, giving him a thumbs up. Everyone around had been taken out.

Then the bullet tore through her middle.


	18. Dead Men

They came from the trees with the swift strength of trained assassins. It was only moments before Clint was overwhelmed; as a foul-scented rag was stuffed over his face, forcing him to take in several breaths. He stopped immediately, ignoring the buzzing in his ears - was it Steve asking for help, or a side effect of the chloroform? - and tried to elbow his captor in the ribs. The response was a sharp kick to the back of his knee. The sudden burst of pain caused him to inhale a sharp breath; the rest was darkness.

He woke some time later in what he could only assume was a rough-walled cell; fading grey brick surrounded him, with rusting chains wrapped around his wrists. He groaned and shifted against the concrete floor, glaring into the darkness. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he wished they hadn't; Rachel was slumped in the opposite corner with blood pooled around her. His ears told him she was still breathing, a good sign at least. Clint shifted again, tugging at the chains with all the force he could. With a huff and another tug the rusted metal snapped. He crawled across the floor to his fellow agent. The wound wasn't terribly deep and seemed to have bypassed most of the major organs - or so he thought, until he tried to pull her towards him and realised it had hit an artery.

"Shit, shit, hang on Leighton," he pushed his hands against it and held still, hoping help would arrive soon. The communications unit had been ripped from his ear, hers too by the looks of it, and both had been stripped of weapons. Clint refused to believe they would leave her here to die. It was obvious they were American agents - they surely wouldn't risk it.

Then again, dead men could tell no tales.

* * *

Steve sucked in a breath and held still as another lot of guards went past. After the absolute disaster outside had been he was the only one to evade capture - Diamondback was injured, possibly critically by the looks of it, Hawkeye had been rendered unconscious, and Quake had vanished into the fray of fighting. He hadn't seen her since and could only assume she had been dragged away with the others. It was now his sole mission to free Clint, get Rachel medical attention, find Daisy and save the kidnapped girl, while still following the SHIELD mission objectives.

He had no doubt he could do it. The question was how. How could he, alone, without back up? As he pressed himself back into the dark cavity he'd hidden himself in an idea occurred to him. He raised a hand to his comms. "Agent Morales, come in."

There was a pause before replied, sounding scared as all hell. It didn't surprise him. He thought back to his days serving the army - Peggy probably would have called Morales a  _green-eyed twit_. She'd said it to him enough times. "Yes, sir?"

"We've run into trouble. I need you to call in for back up. You have our location?"

"Both latitude and longitude, sir."

"Good. And Morales - be careful. I'm going to try and get Clint free, but there's no doubt they have men out looking for others in our party."

"Be careful yourself, Captain. Radio silence."

He gave a soft laugh and slid out from his hiding place. The hallway was clear for now, though likely not for long. Steve mentally took note of his surroundings - grey brick walls, concrete floor run through with cracks, heavy-looking doors that had been painted the same dull grey as everything else. Each had a small, dust-covered window set into it. He sidled up to one and peered in. It appeared bare at first and he nearly walked on, were it not for the small thing moving in a corner. With a glance around he went to try the doorknob but instead found a keypad. It looked out of place, something modern in such a hostile environment. He frowned down at it. Three of the numbers were more faded than the others, so with a shrug, he pressed them in reverse order.

_9...5...2_

To his surprise the door opened with a faint click. He crept inside.

The thing was a girl. She was all long limbs and pale skin, with a mess of black hair and spiteful green eyes that were glaring into him. He held up his hands to show her he meant no harm before dropping down to one knee. She appeared uninjured, but dry blood caked her dark clothes and was thick in her hair. "Hey, kid. You okay? Can you speak English?"

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded, and replied with an accent he couldn't place. "Yes. English. Okay."

"You're Catalina, right?"

She nodded again, unrelenting in her glare, and pulled herself up from the floor with the help of his hand. She snatched hers away quickly and stood at least a metre away from him. He gestured to the door, careful to keep his movements slow; she was almost wholly untrusting of him, it seemed.

Steve walked out with her following behind, staying close, but just out of reach. Now he had her he decided getting her out was priority - the others could wait. They walked down the halls, eyes peeled for security cameras and guards. When they heard footsteps approaching Steve grabbed her, one hand over her mouth before she could cry out in protest, and pulled her into a dark corridor that branched off the hall. "I'm sorry," he murmured in her ear. "We can't get caught."

In response she bit his hand, glaring up at him. He hissed and glared back, biting his tongue as the approaching footsteps grew louder. Two armed men walked past, conferring roughly in a language he didn't understand. He glanced down at the girl again. She was frowning.

"They say - they say American...I do not know how this word in English - it is a bad word. They say the Americans will be killed in return for the death of their...father?"

Steve breathed in slowly, helping Catalina out to the main hall again.  _Don't think about it. They'll be fine._  They kept walking until they came to a window large enough to get them both through, and a quick look out of it told him no men remained outside. They had all come into the building to observe the execution of the Americans.

He gave her a boost as he slid the window open just far enough to get her through. She turned back to give him a puzzled look when she realised he wasn't following.

"Go into the forest. Twenty miles due south from here is a woman named Ali. I know it's a long distance to walk, I'm sorry about that, but I can't come with you. Find Ali, and she'll take you home, okay sweetheart?"

The girl nodded and he went to close the window until he realised Morales was standing just in the edge of the dense green jungle, arms folded, expression smug. He pointed and told the girl to go to her; he could only trust Alisande would get her back to safety. With a frown and a nod the girl slipped from the sill and landed on the ground below, hands and feet squelching in the mud. She brushed off her hands on her shirt, and with one last look at him, took off towards the trees.


End file.
